LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF 
CALIFORNIA 
SANTA  CRUZ 


1733 


Main-Travelled 
Roads 


By 
HAMLIN  GARLAND 

Author  of 
Other  Main-Travelled  Roads,  etc. 


Harper  y  Brothers 

Publishers 
New  York  and  London 


MAIN-TRAVELLED  ROADS 

Copyright,  1891,  by  The  Arena  Publishing  Company 

Copyright,  1893,  by  The  Century  Co. 
Copyright,  1893,  1899,  by  Hamlin  Garland 

F-I 


To 

MY  FATHER  AND  MOTHER 

WHOSE  HALF-CENTURY  PILGRIMAGE  ON  THE  MAIN- 
TRAVELLED  ROAD  OF  LIFE  HAS  BROUGHT  THEM 
ONLY  TOIL  AND  DEPRIVATION,  THIS  BOOK  OF  STO- 
RIES IS  DEDICATED  BY  A  SON  TO  WHOM  EVERY 
DAY  BRINGS  A  DEEPENING  SENSE  OF  HIS  PARENTS* 
SILENT  HEROISM  ******** 


THE  MAIN-TRAVELLED  ROAD  in  the  West  (as  every- 
where) is  hot  and  dusty  in  summer,  and  desolate  and  drear  with 
mud  in  fall  and  spring,  and  in  winter  the  winds  sweep  the  snow 
across  it;  but  it  does  sometimes  cross  a  rich  meadow  where  the  songs 
of  the  larks  and  bobolinks  and  blackbirds  are  tangled.  Follow  it  far 
enough,  it  may  lead  past  a  bend  in  the  river  where  the  water  laughs 
eternally  over  its  shallows. 

Mainly  it  is  long  and  wearyful,  and  has  a  dull  little  town  at  one 
end  and  a  home  of  toil  at  the  other.  Like  the  main-travelled  road 
of  life  it  is  traversed  by  many  classes  of  people,  but  the  poor  and 
the  weary  predominate. 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 

FOREWORD ix 

INTRODUCTION I 

A  BRANCH  ROAD 5 

/Up  THE  COOLLY ".'•  .  .  V  *  .  45 

AMONG  THE  CORN-ROWS 88 

THE  RETURN  OF  A  PRIVATE .  112 

UNDER  THE  LION'S  PAW .  •  130 

•THE  CREAMERY  MAN 145 

A  DAY'S  PLEASURE 162 

MRS.  RIPLEY'S  TRIP 171 

/  UNCLE  ETHAN  RIPLEY 184 

GOD'S  RAVENS 196 

A  "GooD  FELLOW'S"  WIFE  .  212 


FOREWORD 

I*  the  summer  of  1887,  a*ter  having  been  three  years  in  Boston, 
and  six  years  absent  from  my  old  home  in  northern  Iowa,  I  found 
myself  with  money  enough  to  pay  my  railway  fare  to  Ordway, 
South  Dakota,  where  my  father  and  mother  were  living,  and  as  it 
cost  very  little  extra  to  go  by  way  of  Dubuque  and  Charles  City,  I 
planned  to  visit  Osage,  Iowa,  and  the  farm  we  had  opened  on  Dry 
Run  prairie  in  1871. 

Up  to  this  time  I  had  written  only  a  few  poems,  and  some  articles 
descriptive  of  boy  life  on  the  prairie,  although  I  was  doing  a  good 
deal  of  thinking  and  lecturing  on  land  reform,  and  was  regarded 
as  a  very  intense  disciple  of  Herbert  Spencer  and  Henry  George — 
a  singular  combination,  as  I  see  it  now.  On  my  way  westward,  that 
summer  day  in  1887,  rural  life  presented  itself  from  an  entirely 
new  angle.  The  ugliness,  the  endless  drudgery,  and  the  loneliness 
of  the  farmer's  lot  smote  me  with  stern  insistence.  I  was  the  mili- 
tant reformer. 

The  farther  I  got  from  Chicago  the  more  depressing  the  land- 
scape became.  It  was  bad  enough  in  our  former  home  in  Mitchell 
County,  but  my  pity  grew  more  intense  as  I  passed  from  north- 
west Iowa  into  southern  Dakota.  The  houses,  bare  as  boxes, 
dropped  on  the  treeless  plains,  the  barbed-wire  fences  running  at 
right  angles,  and  the  towns  mere  assemblages  of  flimsy  wooden 
sheds  with  painted-pine  battlement,  produced  on  me  the  effect  of 
an  almost  helpless  and  sterile  poverty. 

My  dark  mood  was  deepened  into  bitterness  by  my  father's  farm, 
where  I  found  my  mother  imprisoned  in  a  small  cabin  on  the  enor- 
mous sunburnt,  treeless  plain,  with  no  expectation  of  ever  living 
anywhere  else.  Deserted  by  her  sons  and  failing  in  health,  she  en- 
dured the  discomforts  of  her  life  uncomplainingly — but  my  resent- 


Foreword  vii 

ment  of  "things  as  they  are"  deepened  during  my  talks  with  her 
neighbors  who  were  all  housed  in  the  same  unshaded  cabins  in 
equal  poverty  and  loneliness.  The  fact  that  at  twenty-seven  I  was 
without  power  to  aid  my  mother  in  any  substantial  way  added  to 
my  despairing  mood. 

My  savings  for  the  two  years  of  my  teaching  in  Boston  werd 
not  sufficient  to  enable  me  to  purchase  my  return  ticket,  and  whefl 
my  father  offered  me  a  stacker's  wages  in  the  harvest  field  I  ac- 
cepted and  for  two  weeks  or  more  proved  my  worth  with  the 
fork,  which  was  still  mightier — with  me — than  the  pen. 

However,  I  did  not  entirely  neglect  the  pen.  In  spite  of  the  dust 
and  heat  of  the  wheat  ricks  I  dreamed  of  poems  and  stories.  My 
mind  teemed  with  subjects  for  fiction,  and  one  Sunday  morning  I 
set  to  work  on  a  story  which  had  been  suggested  to  me  by  a  talk 
with  my  mother,  and  a  few  hours  later  I  read  to  her  (seated  on  the 
low  sill  of  that  treeless  cottage)  the  first  two  thousand  words  of 
Mrs.  Ripley's  Trip,  the  first  of  the  series  of  sketches  which  became 
Main-Travelled  Roads. 

I  did  not  succeed  in  finishing  it,  however,  till  after  my  return 
to  Boston  in  September.  During  the  fall  and  winter  of  '87  and  the 
winter  and  spring  of  '88,  I  wrote  the  most  of  the  stories  in  Main- 
Travelled  Roads,  a  novelette  for  the  Century  Magazine,  and  a 
play  called  "Under  the  Wheel."  The  actual  work  of  the  composi- 
tion was  carried  on  in  the  south  attic  room  of  Doctor  Cross's  house 
at  21  Seaverns  Avenue,  Jamaica  Plain. 

The  mood  of  bitterness  in  which  these  books  were  written  was 
renewed  and  augmented  by  a  second  visit  to  my  parents  in  1889, 
for  during  my  stay  my  mother  suffered  a  stroke  of  paralysis  due  to 
overwork  and  the  dreadful  heat  of  the  summer.  She  grew  better 
before  the  time  came  for  me  to  return  to  my  teaching  in  Boston, 
but  I  felt  like  a  sneak  as  I  took  my  way  to  the  train  leaving  my 
mother  and  sister  on  that  bleak  and  sun-baked  plains. 

"Old  Paps  Flaxen,"  "Jason  Edwards,"  "A  Spoil  of  Office,"  and 
most  of  the  stories  gathered  into  the  second  volume  of  Main-Trav- 
elled Roads  were  written  in  the  shadow  of  these  defeats.  If  they 
seem  unduly  austere,  let  the  reader  remember  the  times  in  which 


viii  Foreword 

they  were  composed.  That  they  were  true  of  the  farms  of  that  day 
no  one  can  know  better  than  I,  for  I  was  there — a  farmer. 

Life  on  the  farms  of  Iowa  and  Wisconsin — even  on  the  farms  of 
Dakota — has  gained  in  beauty  and  security,  I  will  admit,  but  there 
are  still  wide  stretches  of  territory  in  Kansas  and  Nebraska  where 
the  farmhouse  is  a  lonely  shelter.  Groves  and  lawns,  better  roads, 
the  rural  free  delivery,  the  telephone,  and  the  motor  car  have  done 
much  to  bring  the  farmer  into  a  frame  of  mind  where  he  is  con- 
tented with  his  lot,  but  much  remains  to  be  done  before  the  stream 
of  young  life  from  the  country  to  the  city  can  be  checked. 

The  two  volumes  of  Main-Travelled  Roads  can  now  be  taken 
to  be  what  William  Dean  Howells  called  them,  "historical  fiction," 
for  they  form  a  record  of  the  farmer's  life  as  I  lived  it  and  studied 
it.  In  these  two  books  is  a  record  of  the  privations  and  hardships  of 
the  men  and  women  who  subdued  the  midland  wilderness  and  pre- 
pared the  way  for  the  present  golden  age  of  agriculture. 

H.  G. 

March  I,  1922 


Introduction 

AN  interesting  phase  of  fiction,  at  present,  is  the  material  pros- 
perity of  the  short  story,  which  seems  to  have  followed  its  artistic 
excellence  among  us  with  uncommon  obedience  to  a  law  that  ought 
always  to  prevail.  Until  of  late  the  publisher  has  been  able  to  say 
to  the  author,  dazzled  and  perhaps  deceived  by  his  magazine  suc- 
cess with  short  stories,  and  fondly  intending  to  make  a  book  of 
them,  "Yes.  But  collections  of  short  stories  don't  sell.  The  public 
won't  have  them.  I  don't  know  why ;  but  it  won't." 

This  was  never  quite  true  of  the  short  stories  of  Mr.  Bret  Harte, 
or  of  Miss  Sarah  Orne  Jewett,  or  of  Mr.  T.  B.  Aldrich ;  but  it  was 
too  true  of  the  short  stories  of  most  other  writers.  For  some  reason, 
or  for  none,  the  very  people  who  liked  an  author's  short  stories  in 
the  magazine  could  not  bear  them,  or  would  not  buy  them,  when  he 
put  several  of  them  together  in  a  volume.  They  then  became  ob- 
noxious, or  at  least  undesirable ;  somewhat  as  human  beings,  agree- 
able enough  as  long  as  they  are  singly  domiciled  in  one's  block, 
become  a  positive  detriment  to  the  neighborhood  when  gathered 
together  in  a  boarding-house.  A  novel  not  half  so  good  by  the  same 
author  would  formerly  outsell  his  collection  of  short  stories  five 
times  over.  Perhaps  it  would  still  outsell  the  stories ;  we  rather  think 
it  would ;  but  not  in  that  proportion.  The  hour  of  the  short  story 
in  book  form  has  struck,  apparently,  for  with  all  our  love  and  ven- 
eration for  publishers,  we  have  never  regarded  them  as  martyrs  to 
literature,  and  we  do  not  believe  they  would  now  be  issuing  so 
many  volumes  of  short  stories  if  these  did  not  pay.  Publishers,  with 
all  their  virtues,  are  as  distinctly  made  a  little  lower  than  the  angels 
as  any  class  of  mortals  we  know.  They  are,  in  fact,  a  tentative  and 
timid  kind,  never  quite  happy  except  in  full  view  of  the  main 
chance;  and  just  at  this  moment,  this  chance  seems  to  wear  the 
diversified  physiognomy  of  the  collected  short  stories.  We  do  not 


2  Main-Travelled  Roads 

know  how  it  has  happened ;  we  should  not  at  all  undertake  to  say ; 
but  it  is  probably  attributable  to  a  number  of  causes.  It  may  be  the 
prodigious  popularity  of  Mr.  Kipling,  which  has  broken  down  all 
prejudices  against  the  form  of  his  success.  The  vogue  that  Mau- 
passant's tales  in  the  original  or  in  versions  have  enjoyed  may  have 
had  something  to  do  with  it.  Possibly  the  critical  recognition  of  the 
American  supremacy  in  this  sort  has  helped.  But  however  it  has 
come  about,  it  is  certain  that  the  result  has  come,  and  the  publish- 
ers are  fearlessly  adventuring  volumes  of  short  stories  on  every 
hand;  and  not  only  short  stories  by  authors  of  established  repute, 
but  by  new  writers,  who  would  certainly  not  have  found  this  way 
to  the  public  some  time  ago. 

The  change  by  no  means  indicates  that  the  pleasure  in  large  fic- 
tion is  dying  out.  This  remains  of  as  ample  gorge  as  ever.  But  it 
does  mean  that  a  quite  reasonless  reluctance  has  given  way,  and 
that  a  young  writer  can  now  hope  to  come  under  the  fire  of  crit- 
icism much  sooner  than  before.  This  may  not  be  altogether  a  bless- 
ing ;  it  has  its  penalties  inherent  in  the  defective  nature  of  criticismv 
or  the  critics ;  but  undoubtedly  it  gives  the  young  author  definition 
and  fixity  in  the  reader's  knowledge.  It  enables  him  to  continue  a 
short-story  writer  if  he  likes,  or  it  prepares  the  public  not  to  be 
surprised  at  him  if  he  turns  out  a  novelist. 

II 

These  are  advantages,  and  we  must  not  be  impatient  of  any 
writer  who  continues  a  short-story  writer  when  he  might  freely 
become  a  novelist.  Now  that  a  writer  can  profitably  do  so,  he  may 
prefer  to  grow  his  fiction  on  the  dwarf  stock.  He  may  plausibly 
contend  that  this  was  the  original  stock,  and  that  the  novella  was 
a  short  story  many  ages  before  its  name  was  appropriated  by  the 
standard  variety,  the  duodecimo  American,  or  the  three-volume 
English;  that  Boccaccio  was  a  world-wide  celebrity  five  centuries 
before  George  Eliot  was  known  to  be  a  woman.  To  be  sure,  we 
might  come  back  at  him  with  the  Greek  romancers ;  we  might  ask 
him  what  he  had  to  say  to  the  interminable  tales  of  Heliodorus 
and  Longus,  and  the  rest,  and  then  not  let  him  say. 


Introduction  3 

But  no  such  controversy  is  necessary  to  the  enjoyment  of  the 
half  dozen  volumes  of  short  stories  at  hand,  and  we  gladly  post- 
pone it  till  we  have  nothing  to  talk  about.  At  present  we  have  only 
too  much  to  talk  about  in  a  book  so  robust  and  terribly  serious  as 
Mr.  Hamlin  Garland's  volume  called  Main-Travelled  Roads. 
That  is  what  they  call  the  highways  in  the  part  of  the  West  that 
Mr.  Garland  comes  from  and  writes  about;  and  these  stones  are 
full  of  the  bitter  and  burning  dust,  the  foul  and  trampled  slush,  of 
the  common  avenues  of  life,  the  life  of  the  men  who  hopelessly 
and  cheerlessly  make  the  wealth  that  enriches  the  alien  and  the 
idler,  and  impoverishes  the  producer. 

If  any  one  is  still  at  a  loss  to  account  for  that  uprising  of  the 
farmers  in  the  West  which  is  the  translation  of  the  Peasants'  War 
into  modern  and  republican  terms,  let  him  read  Main-Travelled 
Roads,  and  he  will  begin  to  understand,  unless,  indeed,  Mr.  Gar- 
land is  painting  the  exceptional  rather  than  the  average.  The  sto- 
ries are  full  of  those  gaunt,  grim,  sordid,  pathetic,  ferocious  figures, 
whom  our  satirists  find  so  easy  to  caricature  as  Hayseeds,  and  whose 
blind  groping  for  fairer  conditions  is  so  grotesque  to  the  newspapers 
and  so  menacing  to  the  politicians.  They  feel  that  something  is 
wrong,  and  they  know  that  the  wrong  is  not  theirs.  The  type 
caught  in  Mr.  Garland's  book  is  not  pretty;  it  is  ugly  and  often 
ridiculous ;  but  it  is  heart-breaking  in  its  rude  despair. 

The  story  of  a  farm  mortgage,  as  it  is  told  in  the  powerful  sketch 
"Under  the  Lion's  Paw,"  is  a  lesson  in  political  economy,  as  well  as 
a  tragedy  of  the  darkest  cast.  "The  Return  of  the  Private"  is  a 
satire  of  the  keenest  edge,  as  well  as  a  tender  and  mournful  idyl  of 
the  unknown  soldier  who  comes  back  after  the  war  with  no  blare 
of  welcoming  trumpets  or  flash  of  streaming  flags,  but  foot-sore, 
heart-sore,  with  no  stake  in  the  country  he  has  helped  to  make  safe 
and  rich  but  the  poor  man's  chance  to  snatch  an  uncertain  sub- 
sistence from  the  furrows  he  left  for  the  battle-field. 

"Up  the  Coolly,"  however,  is  the  story  which  most  pitilessly  of 
all  accuses  our  vaunted  conditions,  wherein  every  man  has  the 
chance  to  rise  above  his  brother  and  make  himself  richer  than  his 
fellows.  It  shows  us  once  for  all  what  the  risen  man  may  be,  and 


4  Main-Travelled  Roads 

portrays  in  his  good-natured  selfishness  and  indifference  that  favor- 
ite ideal  of  our  system.  The  successful  brother  comes  back  to  the 
old  farmstead,  prosperous,  handsome,  well-dressed,  and  full  of 
patronizing  sentiment  for  his  boyhood  days  there,  and  he  cannot 
understand  why  his  brother,  whom  hard  work  and  corroding 
mortgages  have  eaten  all  the  joy  out  of,  gives  him  a  grudging  and 
surly  welcome.  It  is  a  tremendous  situation,  and  it  is  the  allegory 
of  the  whole  world's  civilization :  the  upper  dog  and  the  under  dog 
are  everywhere,  and  the  under  dog  nowhere  likes  it. 

But  the  allegorical  effects  are  not  the  primary  intent  of  Mr. 
Garland's  work:  it  is  a  work  of  art,  first  of  all,  and  we  think  of 
fine  art;  though  the  material  will  strike  many  gentilities  as  coarse 
and  common.  In  one  of  the  stories,  "Among  the  Corn-Rows,"  there 
is  a  good  deal  of  burly,  broad-shouldered  humor  of  a  fresh  and 
native  kind;  in  "Mrs.  Ripley's  Trip"  is  a  delicate  touch,  like  that 
of  Miss  Wilkins;  but  Mr.  Garland's  touches  are  his  own,  here 
and  elsewhere.  He  has  a  certain  harshness  and  bluntness,  an  indif- 
ference to  the  more  delicate  charms  of  style,  and  he  has  still  to  learn 
that  though  the  thistle  is  full  of  an  unrecognized  poetry,  the  rose 
has  a  poetry,  too,  that  even  over-praise  cannot  spoil.  But  he  has  a 
fine  courage  to  leave  a  fact  with  the  reader,  ungarnished  and  unvar- 
nished, which  is  almost  the  rarest  trait  in  an  Anglo-Saxon  writer, 
so  infantile  and  feeble  is  the  custom  of  our  art;  and  this  attains 
tragical  sublimity  in  the  opening  sketch,  "A  Branch  Road,"  where 
the  lover  who  has  quarrelled  with  his  betrothed  comes  back  to  find 
her  mismated  and  miserable,  such  a  farm  wife  as  Mr.  Garland  has 
alone  dared  to  draw,  and  tempts  the  broken-hearted  drudge  away 
from  her  loveless  home.  It  is  all  morally  wrong,  but  the  author 
leaves  you  to  say  that  yourself.  He  knows  that  his  business  was 
with  those  two  people,  their  passions  and  their  probabilities. 

W.  D.  HOWELLS 
(In  the  Editor's  Study,  "Harper's 


A  BRANCH  ROAD 

IN  THE  windless  September  dawn  a  voice  went  ringing  clear  and 
sweet,  a  man's  voice,  singing  a  cheap  and  common  air.  Yet  some- 
thing in  the  sound  of  it  told  he  was  young,  jubilant,  and  a  happy 
lover. 

Above  the  level  belt  of  timber  to  the  east  a  vast  dome  of  pale 
undazzling  gold  was  rising,  silently  and  swiftly.  Jays  called  in  the 
thickets  where  the  maples  flamed  amid  the  green  oaks,  with  irreg- 
ular splashes  of  red  and  orange.  The  grass  was  crisp  with  frost 
under  the  feet,  the  road  smooth  and  gray-white  in  color,  the  air 
was  indescribably  pure,  resonant,  and  stimulating.  No  wonder  the 
man  sang! 

He  came  into  view  around  the  curve  in  the  lane.  He  had  a  fork 
on  his  shoulder,  a  graceful  and  polished  tool.  His  straw  hat  was 
tilted  on  the  back  of  his  head ;  his  rough,  faded  coat  was  buttoned 
close  to  the  chin,  and  he  wore  thin  buckskin  gloves  on  his  hands. 
He  looked  muscular  and  intelligent,  and  was  evidently  about 
twenty-two  years  of  age. 

As  he  walked  on,  and  the  sunrise  came  nearer  to  him,  he  stopped 
his  song.  The  broadening  heavens  had  a  majesty  and  sweetness  that 
made  him  forget  the  physical  joy  of  happy  youth.  He  grew  almost 
sad  with  the  vague  thoughts  and  great  emotions  which  rolled  in 
his  brain  as  the  wonder  of  the  morning  grew. 

He  walked  more  slowly,  mechanically  following  the  road,  his 
eyes  on  the  ever-shifting  streaming  banners  of  rose  and  pale  green, 
which  made  the  east  too  glorious  for  any  words  to  tell.  The  air  waa 
so  still  it  seemed  to  await  expectantly  the  coming  of  the  sun. 

Then  his  mind  went  forward  to  Agnes.  Would  she  see  it?  She 
was  at  work,  getting  breakfast,  but  he  hoped  she  had  time  to  see  it» 
He  was  in  that  mood,  so  common  to  him  now,  wherein  he  could 
not  fully  enjoy  any  sight  or  sound  unless  sharing  it  with  her.  Far 

5 


6  Main-Travelled  Roads 

down  the  road  he  heard  the  sharp  clatter  of  a  wagon.  The  roosters 
were  calling  near  and  far,  in  many  keys  and  tunes.  The  dogs  were 
barking,  cattle-bells  were  jangling  in  the  wooded  pastures,  and  as 
the  youth  passed  farmhouses,  lights  in  the  kitchen  windows  showed 
that  the  women  were  astir  about  breakfast,  and  the  sound  of  voices 
and  the  tapping  of  curry-combs  at  the  barn  told  that  the  men  were 
at  their  morning  chores. 

And  the  east  bloomed  broader !  The  dome  of  gold  grew  brighter, 
the  faint  clouds  here  and  there  flamed  with  a  flush  of  red.  The 
frost  began  to  glisten  with  a  reflected  color.  The  youth  dreamed  as 
he  walked;  his  broad  face  and  deep  earnest  eyes  caught  and  re- 
tained some  part  of  the  beauty  and  majesty  of  the  sky. 

But  his  brow  darkened  as  he  passed  a  farm  gate  and  a  young 
man  of  about  his  own  age  joined  him.  The  other  man  was  equipped 
for  work  like  himself. 

"Hello,  Will!" 

"Hello,  Ed!" 

"Going  down  to  help  Dingman  thrash !" 

"Yes,"  replied  Will,  shortly.  It  was  easy  to  see  he  did  not  wel- 
come company. 

"So'm  I.  Who's  goin'  to  do  your  thrashin' — Dave  McTurg?" 

"Yes,  I  guess  so.  Haven't  spoken  to  anybody  yet." 

They  walked  on  side  by  side.  Will  hardly  felt  like  being  rudely 
broken  in  on  in  this  way.  The  two  men  were  rivals,  but  Will, 
being  the  victor,  would  have  been  magnanimous,  only  he  wanted 
to  be  alone  with  his  lover's  dream. 

"When  do  you  go  back  to  the  Sem  ?"  Ed  asked  after  a  little. 

"Term  begins  next  week.  I'll  make  a  break  about  second  week." 

"Le's  see :  you  graduate  next  year,  don't  yeh  ?" 

"I  expect  to,  if  I  don't  slip  up  on  it." 

They  walked  on  side  by  side,  both  handsome  fellows ;  Ed  a  little 
more  showy  in  his  face,  which  had  a  certain  clear-cut  precision  of 
line,  and  a  peculiar  clear  pallor  that  never  browned  under  the  sun. 
He  chewed  vigorously  on  a  quid  of  tobacco,  one  of  his  most  notice- 
able bad  habits. 

Teams  could  be  heard  clattering  along  on  several  roads  now, 


A  Branch  Road  7 

and  jovial  voices  singing.  One  team  coming  along  rapidly  behind 
the  two  men,  the  driver  sung  out  in  good-natured  warning,  "Get 
out  o'  the  way,  there."  And  with  a  laugh  and  a  chirp  spurred  his 
horses  to  pass  them. 

Ed,  with  a  swift  understanding  of  the  driver's  trick,  flung  out 
his  left  hand  and  caught  the  end-gate,  threw  his  fork  in  and  leaped 
after  it.  Will  walked  on,  disdaining  attempt  to  catch  the  wagon. 
On  all  sides  now  the  wagons  of  the  ploughmen  or  threshers  were 
getting  out  into  the  fields,  with  a  pounding,  rumbling  sound. 

The  pale-red  sun  was  shooting  light  through  the  leaves,  and 
warming  the  boles  of  the  great  oaks  that  stood  in  the  yard,  and 
melting  the  frost  off  the  great  gaudy,  red  and  gold  striped  thresh- 
ing machine  standing  between  the  stacks.  The  interest,  picturesque- 
ness,  of  it  all  got  hold  of  Will  Hannan,  accustomed  to  it  as  he  was. 
The  horses  stood  about  in  a  circle,  hitched  to  the  ends  of  the  six 
sweeps,  every  rod  shining  with  frost. 

The  driver  was  oiling  the  great  tarry  cog-wheels  underneath. 
Laughing  fellows  were  wrestling  about  the  yard.  Ed  Kinney  had 
scaled  the  highest  stack,  and  stood  ready  to  throw  the  first  sheaf. 
The  sun,  lighting  him  where  he  stood,  made  his  fork-handle  gleam 
like  dull  gold.  Cheery  words,  jests,  and  snatches  of  song  rose  every- 
where. Dingrnan  bustled  about  giving  his  orders  and  placing  his 
men,  and  the  voice  of  big  David  McTurg  was  heard  calling  to  the 
men  as  they  raised  the  long  stacker  into  place : 

"Heave  ho,  there!  Up  she  rises!" 

And,  best  of  all,  Will  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  smiling  girl-face  at 
the  kitchen  window  that  made  the  blood  beat  in  his  throat. 

"Hello,  Will!"  was  the  general  greeting,  given  with  some  con- 
straint by  most  of  the  young  fellows,  for  Will  had  been  going  to 
Rock  River  to  school  for  some  years,  and  there  was  a  little  feeling 
of  jealousy  on  the  part  of  those  who  pretended  to  sneer  at  the 
"seminary  chaps  like  Will  Hannan  and  Milton  Jennings." 

Dingman  came  up.  "Will,  I  guess  you'd  better  go  on  the  stack 
with  Ed." 

"All  ready.  Hurrah,  there !"  said  David  in  his  soft  but  resonant 
bass  voice  that  always  had  a  laugh  in  it.  "Come,  come,  every  sucker 


8  Main-Travelled  Roads 

of  yeh  git  hold  o'  something.  All  ready!"  He  waved  his  hand  at 
the  driver,  who  climbed  upon  his  platform.  Everybody  scrambled 
into  place. 

The  driver  began  to  talk: 

"Chk,  chkl  All  ready,  boys!  Stiddy  there,  Dan!  Chk,  chkl  All 
ready  boys!  Stiddy  there,  boys!  All  ready  now!"  The  horses  began 
to  strain  at  the  sweeps.  The  cylinder  began  to  hum. 

"Grab  a  root  there!  Where's  my  band-cutter?  Here,  you,  climb 
on  here!"  And  David  reached  down  and  pulled  Shep  Watson  up 
by  the  shoulder  with  his  gigantic  hand. 

Boo-oo-oo-oom,  Boo-woo-woo-oom-oom-ow-own,  yarr,  yarr !  The 
whirling  cylinder  boomed,  roared,  and  snarled  as  it  rose  in  speed. 
At  last,  when  its  tone  became  a  rattling  yell,  David  nodded  to  the 
pitchers  and  rasped  his  hands  together.  The  sheaves  began  to  fall 
from  the  stack ;  the  band-cutter,  knife  in  hand,  slashed  the  bands  in 
twain,  and  the  feeder  with  easy  majestic  movement  gathered  them 
under  his  arm,  rolled  them  out  into  an  even  belt  of  entering  wheat, 
on  which  the  cylinder  tore  with  its  smothered,  ferocious  snarl. 

Will  was  very  happy  in  a  quiet  way.  He  enjoyed  the  smooth  roll 
of  his  great  muscles,  and  the  sense  of  power  in  his  hands  as  he 
lifted,  turned,  and  swung  the  heavy  sheaves  two  by  two  upon  the 
table,  where  the  band-cutter  madly  slashed  away.  His  frame,  sturdy 
rather  than  tall,  was  nevertheless  lithe,  and  he  made  a  fine  figure 
to  look  at,  so  Agnes  thought,  as  she  came  out  a  moment  and  bowed 
and  smiled. 

This  scene,  one  of  the  j oiliest  and  most  sociable  of  the  Western 
farm,  had  a  charm  quite  aside  from  human  companionship.  The 
beautiful  yellow  straw  entering  the  cylinder;  the  clear  yellow- 
brown  wheat  pulsing  out  at  the  side;  the  broken  straw,  chaff,  and 
dust  pufKng  out  on  the  great  stacker ;  the  cheery  whistling  and  call- 
ing of  the  driver;  the  keen,  crisp  air,  and  the  bright  sun  somehow 
weirdly  suggestive  of  the  passage  of  time. 

Will  and  Agnes  had  arrived  at  a  tacit  understanding  of  mutual 
love  only  the  night  before,  and  Will  was  powerfully  moved  to 
glance  often  toward  the  house,  but  feared  as  never  before  the  jokes 
of  his  companions.  He  worked  on,  therefore,  methodically,  eagerly; 


A  Branch  Road  9 

but  his  thoughts  were  on  the  future — the  rustle  of  the  oak-tree 
near  by,  the  noise  of  whose  sere  leaves  he  could  distinguish  sifting 
beneath  the  booming  snarl  of  the  machine,  was  like  the  sound  of  a 
woman's  dress :  on  the  sky  were  great  fleets  of  clouds  sailing  on  the 
rising  wind,  like  merchantmen  bound  to  some  land  of  love  and 
plenty. 

When  the  Dingmans  first  came  in,  only  a  couple  of  years  before, 
Agnes  had  been  at  once  surrounded  by  a  swarm  of  suitors.  Her 
pleasant  face  and  her  abounding  good-nature  made  her  an  instant 
favorite  with  all.  Will,  however,  had  disdained  to  become  one  of 
the  crowd,  and  held  himself  aloof,  as  he  could  easily  do,  being  away 
at  school  most  of  the  time. 

The  second  winter,  however,  Agnes  also  attended  the  seminary, 
and  Will  saw  her  daily,  and  grew  to  love  her.  He  had  been  just  a 
bit  jealous  of  Ed  Kinney  all  the  time,  for  Ed  had  a  certain  rakish 
grace  in  dancing  and  a  dashing  skill  in  handling  a  team,  which 
made  him  a  dangerous  rival. 

But,  as  Will  worked  beside  him  all  the  Monday,  he  felt  so 
secure  in  his  knowledge  of  the  caress  Agnes  had  given  him  at  part- 
ing the  night  before  that  he  was  perfectly  happy — so  happy  that  he 
didn't  care  to  talk,  only  to  work  on  and  dream  as  he  worked. 

Shrewd  David  McTurg  had  his  joke  when  the  machine  stopped 
for  a  few  minutes.  "Well,  you  fellers  do  better'n  I  expected  yeh 
to,  after  bein'  out  so  late  last  night.  The  first  feller  I  see  gappin' 
has  got  to  treat  to  the  apples." 

"Keep  your  eye  on  me,"  said  Shep  Watson. 

"You?"  laughed  one  of  the  others.  "Anybody  knows  if  a  girl  so 
much  as  looked  crossways  at  you,  you'd  fall  in  a  fit." 

"Another  thing,"  said  David.  "I  can't  have  you  fellers  carryin' 
grain  goin'  to  the  house  every  minute  for  fried  cakes  or  cookies." 

"Now  you  git  out,"  said  Bill  Young  from  the  straw-pile.  "You 
ain't  goin'  to  have  all  the  fun  to  yourself." 

Will's  blood  began  to  grow  hot  in  his  face.  If  Bill  had  said  much 
more,  or  mentioned  Agnes  by  name,  he  would  have  silenced  him. 
To  have  this  rough  joking  come  to  a  close  upon  the  holiest  and 
most  exquisite  evening  of  his  life  was  horrible.  It  was  not  the  words 


io  Main-Travelled  Roads 

they  said,  but  the  tones  they  used,  that  vulgarized  it  all.  He 
breathed  a  sigh  of  relief  when  the  sound  of  the  machine  began 
again. 

This  jesting  made  him  more  wary,  and  when  the  call  for  dinner 
sounded  and  he  knew  he  was  going  to  see  her,  he  shrank  from  it. 
He  took  no  part  in  the  race  of  the  dust-blackened,  half-famished 
men  to  get  at  the  washing-place  first.  He  took  no  part  in  the  scurry 
to  get  seats  at  the  first  table. 

Threshing-time  was  always  a  season  of  great  trial  to  the  house- 
wife. To  have  a  dozen  men  with  the  appetites  of  dragons  to  cook 
for,  in  addition  to  their  other  everyday  duties,  was  no  small  task 
for  a  couple  of  women.  Preparations  usually  began  the  night  before 
with  a  raid  on  a  hen-roost,  for  "biled  chickun"  formed  the  piece  de 
resistance  of  the  dinner.  The  table,  enlarged  by  boards,  filled  the 
sitting  room.  Extra  seats  were  made  out  of  planks  placed  on  chairs, 
and  dishes  were  borrowed  from  neighbors,  who  came  for  such  aid 
in  their  turn. 

Sometimes  the  neighboring  women  came  in  to  help;  but  Agnes 
and  her  mother  were  determined  to  manage  the  job  alone  this  year, 
and  so  the  girl,  in  neat  dark  dress,  her  eyes  shining,  her  cheeks 
flushed  with  the  work,  received  the  men  as  they  came  in,  dusty, 
coatless,  with  grime  behind  their  ears,  but  a  jolly  good  smile  on 
every  face. 

Most  of  them  were  farmers  of  the  neighborhood,  and  her  school- 
mates. The  only  one  she  shrank  from  was  Bill  Young,  with  his 
hard,  glittering  eyes  and  red,  sordid  face.  She  received  their  jokes, 
their  noise,  with  a  silent  smile  which  showed  her  even  teeth  and 
dimpled  her  round  cheek.  "She  was  good  for  sore  eyes,"  as  one  of 
the  fellows  said  to  Shep.  She  seemed  deliciously  sweet  and  dainty 
to  these  roughly  dressed  fellows. 

They  ranged  along  the  table  with  a  great  deal  of  noise,  boots 
thumping,  squeaking,  knives  and  forks  rattling,  voices  bellowing 
out. 

"Now  hold  on,  Steve !  Can't  hev  yeh  so  near  that  chickun !" 

"Move  along,  Shep!  I  want  to  be  next  to  the  kitchen  door!  I 
won't  get  nothin'  with  you  on  that  side  o'  me." 


A  Branch  Road  1 1 

"Oh,  that's  too  thin !  I  see  what  you're " 

"No,  I  won't  need  any  sugar,  if  you  just  smile  into  it."  This 
from  gallant  David,  greeted  with  roars  of  laughter. 

"Now,  Dave,  s'pose  your  wife  'ud  hear  o'  that  ?" 

"She'd  snatch  'im  bald-headed,  that's  what  she'd  do." 

"Say,  somebody  drive  that  ceow  down  this  way,"  said  Bill. 

"Don't  get  off  that  drive!  It's  too  old,"  criticised  Shep,  passing 
the  milk-jug. 

Potatoes  were  seized,  cut  in  halves,  sopped  in  gravy,  and  taken 
one,  two !  Corn  cakes  went  into  great  jaws  like  coal  into  a  steam- 
engine.  Knives  in  the  right  hand  cut  meat  and  scooped  gravy  up. 
Great,  muscular,  grimy,  but  wholesome  fellows  they  were,  feed- 
ing like  ancient  Norse,  and  capable  of  working  like  demons.  They 
were  deep  in  the  process,  half-hidden  by  steam  from  the  potatoes 
and  stew,  in  less  than  sixty  seconds  after  their  entrance. 

With  a  shrinking  from  the  comments  of  the  others  upon  his 
regard  for  Agnes,  Will  assumed  a  reserved  and  almost  haughty  air 
toward  his  fellow-workmen,  and  a  curious  coldness  toward  her.  As 
he  went  in,  she  came  forward  smiling  brightly. 

"There's  one  more  place,  Will."  A  tender,  involuntary  droop  in 
her  voice  betrayed  her,  and  Will  felt  a  wave  of  hot  blood  surge  over 
him  as  the  rest  roared. 

"Ha,  ha!  Oh,  there'd  be  a  place  for  him !" 

"Don't  worry,  Will!  Always  room  for  you  here!" 

Will  took  his  seat  with  a  sudden,  angry  flame. 

"Why  can't  she  keep  it  from  these  fools?"  was  his  thought.  He 
didn't  even  thank  her  for  showing  him  the  chair. 

She  flushed  vividly,  but  smiled  back.  She  was  so  proud  and 
happy  she  didn't  care  very  much  if  they  did  know  it.  But  as  Will 
looked  at  her  with  that  quick,  angry  glance,  she  was  hurt  and  puz- 
zled. She  redoubled  her  exertions  to  please  him,  and  by  so  doing 
added  to  the  amusement  of  the  crowd  that  gnawed  chicken-bones, 
rattled  cups,  knives,  and  forks,  and  joked  as  they  ate  with  small 
grace  and  no  material  loss  of  time. 

Will  remained  silent  through  it  all,  eating  his  potato,  in  marked 
contrast  to  the  others,  with  his  fork  instead  of  his  knife  and  drinking 


12  Main-Travelled  Roads 

his  tea  from  his  cup  rather  than  from  his  saucer — "finnickies"  which 
did  not  escape  the  notice  of  the  girl  nor  the  sharp  eyes  of  the 
workmen. 

"See  that  ?  That's  the  way  we  do  down  to  the  Sem !  See  ?  Fork 
for  pie  in  yer  right  hand !  Hey?  /  can't  do  it?  Watch  me!" 

When  Agnes  leaned  over  to  say,  "Won't  you  have  some  more 
tea,  Will  ?"  they  nudged  each  other  and  grinned.  "Aha !  What  did 
I  tell  you?" 

Agnes  saw  at  last  that  for  some  reason  Will  didn't  want  her  to 
show  her  regard  for  him — that  he  was  ashamed  of  it  in  some  way, 
and  she  was  wounded.  To  cover  it  up,  she  resorted  to  the  natural 
device  of  smiling  and  chatting  with  the  others.  She  asked  Ed  if  he 
wouldn't  have  another  piece  of  pie. 

"I  will— with  a  fork,  please." 

"This  is  'bout  the  only  place  you  can  use  a  fork,"  said  Bill 
Young,  anticipating  a  laugh  by  his  own  broad  grin. 

"Oh,  that's  too  old,"  said  Shep  Watson.  "Don't  drag  that  out 
agin.  A  man  that'll  eat  seven  taters " 

"Shows  who  does  the  work." 

"Yes,  with  his  jaws,"  put  in  Jim  Wheelock,  the  driver. 

"If  you'd  put  in  a  little  more  work  with  soap'n  water  before 
comin'  in  to  dinner,  it  'ud  be  a  religious  idee,"  said  David. 

"It  ain't  healthy  to  wash." 

"Well,  you'll  live  forever,  then." 

"He  ain't  washed  his  face  sence  I  knew  'im." 

"Oh,  that's  a  little  too  tough !  He  washes  once  a  week,"  said  Ed 
Kinney. 

"Back  of  his  ears?"  inquired  David,  who  was  munching  a  dough- 
nut, his  black  eyes  twinkling  with  fun. 

"Yep." 

"What's  the  cause  of  it?" 

"Dade  says  she  won't  kiss  'im  if  he  don't." 

Everybody  roared. 

"Good  fer  Dade !  I  wouldn't  if  I  was  in  her  place." 

Wheelock  gripped  a  chicken-leg  imperturbably,  and  left  it  bare 
as  a  toothpick  with  one  or  two  bites  at  it.  His  face  shone  in  two 


A  Branch  Road  13 

clean  sections  around  his  nose  and  mouth.  Behind  his  ears  the  dirt 
lay  undisturbed.  The  grease  on  his  hands  could  not  be  washed  off. 

Will  began  to  suffer  now  because  Agnes  treated  the  other  fel- 
lows too  well.  With  a  lover's  exacting  jealousy,  he  wanted  her  in 
some  way  to  hide  their  tenderness  from  the  rest,  and  also  to  show 
her  indifference  to  men  like  Young  and  Kinney.  He  didn't  stop  to 
inquire  of  himself  the  justice  of  such  a  demand,  nor  just  how  it 
was  to  be  done.  He  only  insisted  she  ought  to  do  it. 

He  rose  and  left  the  table  at  the  end  of  his  dinner  without  hav- 
ing spoken  to  her,  without  even  a  tender,  significant  glance,  and 
he  knew,  too,  that  she  was  troubled  and  hurt.  But  he  was  suffering. 
It  seemed  as  if  he  had  lost  something  sweet,  lost  it  irrecoverably. 

He  noticed  Ed  Kinney  and  Bill  Young  were  the  last  to  come 
out,  just  before  the  machine  started  up  again  after  dinner,  and  he 
saw  them  pause  outside  the  threshold  and  laugh  back  at  Agnes 
standing  in  the  doorway.  Why  couldn't  she  keep  those  fellows  at  a 
distance,  not  go  out  of  her  way  to  bandy  jokes  with  them? 

In  some  way  the  elation  of  the  morning  was  gone.  He  worked  on 
doggedly  now,  without  looking  up,  without  listening  to  the  leaves, 
without  seeing  the  sunlighted  clouds.  Of  course  he  didn't  think  that 
she  meant  anything  by  it,  but  it  irritated  him  and  made  him  un- 
happy. She  gave  herself  too  freely. 

Toward  the  middle  of  the  afternoon  the  machine  stopped  for 
some  repairing;  and  while  Will  lay  on  his  stack  in  the  bright  yel- 
low sunshine,  shelling  wheat  in  his  hands  and  listening  to  the  wind 
in  the  oaks,  he  heard  his  name  and  her  name  mentioned  on  the 
other  side  of  the  machine,  where  the  measuring-box  stood.  He  lis- 
tened. 

"She's  pretty  sweet  on  him,  ain't  she?  Did  yeh  notus  how  she 
stood  around  over  him?" 

"Yes ;  an'  did  yeh  see  him  when  she  passed  the  cup  o'  tea  down 
over  his  shoulder?" 

Will  got  up,  white  with  wrath,  as  they  laughed. 

"Someway  he  didn't  seem  to  enjoy  it  as  I  would.  I  wish  she'd 
reach  her  arm  over  my  neck  that  way." 


14  Main-Travelled  Roads 

Will  walked  around  the  machine,  and  came  on  the  group  lying 
on  the  chaff  near  the  straw-pile. 

"Say,  I  want  you  fellers  to  understand  that  I  won't  have  any 
more  of  this  talk.  I  won't  have  it." 

There  was  a  dead  silence.  Then  Bill  Young  got  up. 

"What  yeh  goin'  to  do  about  ut?"  he  sneered. 

"I'm  going  to  stop  it." 

The  wolf  rose  in  Young.  He  moved  forward,  his  ferocious  soul 
flaming  from  his  eyes. 

"W'y,  you  damned  seminary  dude,  I  can  break  you  in  two !" 

An  answering  glare  came  into  Will's  eyes.  He  grasped  and 
slightly  shook  his  fork,  which  he  had  brought  with  him  uncon- 
sciously. 

"If  you  make  one  motion  at  me,  I'll  smash  your  head  like  an  egg- 
shell !"  His  voice  was  low  but  terrific.  There  was  a  tone  in  it  that 
made  his  own  blood  stop  in  his  veins.  "If  you  think  I'm  going  to 
roll  around  on  this  ground  with  a  hyena  like  you,  you've  mistaken 
your  man.  I'll  kill  you,  but  I  won't  fight  with  such  men  as  you  are." 

Bill  quailed  and  slunk  away,  muttering  some  epithet  like  "cow- 
ard." 

"I  don't  care  what  you  call  me,  but  just  remember  what  I  say: 
you  keep  your  tongue  off  that  girl's  affairs." 

"That's  the  talk,"  said  David.  "Stand  up  for  your  girl  always, 
but  don't  use  a  fork.  You  can  handle  him  without  that." 

"I  don't  propose  to  try,"  said  Will,  as  he  turned  away.  As  he 
did  so,  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  Ed  Kinney  at  the  well,  pumping  a 
pail  of  water  for  Agnes,  who  stood  beside  him,  the  sun  on  her 
beautiful  yellow  hair.  She  was  laughing  at  something  Ed  was  say- 
ing as  he  slowly  moved  the  handle  up  and  down. 

Instantly,  like  a  foaming,  turbid  flood,  his  rage  swept  out  toward 
her.  "It's  all  her  fault,"  he  thought,  grinding  his  teeth.  "She's  a 
fool.  If  she'd  hold  herself  in,  like  other  girls!  But  no;  she  must 
smile  and  smile  at  everybody."  It  was  a  beautiful  picture,  but  it 
sent  a  shiver  through  him. 

He  worked  on  with  teeth  set,  white  with  rage.  He  had  an  im- 
pulse that  would  have  made  him  assault  her  with  words  as  with  a 


A  Branch  Road  15 

knife.  He  was  possessed  of  a  terrible  passion  which  was  hitherto 
latent  in  him,  and  which  he  now  felt  to  be  his  worst  self.  But  he 
was  powerless  to  exorcise  it.  His  set  teeth  ached  with  the  stress  of 
his  muscular  tension,  and  his  eyes  smarted  with  the  strain. 

He  had  always  prided  himself  on  being  cool,  calm,  above  these 
absurd  quarrels  which  his  companions  had  indulged  in.  He  didn't 
suppose  he  could  be  so  moved.  As  he  worked  on,  his  rage  settled 
into  a  sort  of  stubborn  bitterness — stubborn  bitterness  of  conflict 
between  this  evil  nature  and  his  usual  self.  It  was  the  instinct  of 
possession,  the  organic  feeling  of  proprietorship  of  a  woman,  which 
rose  to  the  surface  and  mastered  him.  He  was  not  a  self-analyst,  of 
course,  being  young,  though  he  was  more  introspective  than  the 
ordinary  farmer. 

He  had  a  great  deal  of  time  to  think  it  over  as  he  worked  on 
there,  pitching  the  heavy  bundles,  but  still  he  did  not  get  rid  of 
the  miserable  desire  to  punish  Agnes ;  and  when  she  came  out,  look- 
ing very  pretty  in  her  straw  hat,  and  came  around  near  his  stack, 
he  knew  she  came  to  see  him,  to  have  an  explanation,  a  smile ;  and 
yet  he  worked  away  with  his  hat  pulled  over  his  eyes,  hardly  notic- 
ing her. 

Ed  went  over  to  the  edge  of  the  stack  and  chatted  with  her ;  and 
she — poor  girl! — feeling  Will's  neglect,  could  only  put  a  good 
face  on  the  matter,  and  show  that  she  didn't  mind  it,  by  laughing 
back  at  Ed. 

All  this  Will  saw,  though  he  didn't  appear  to  be  looking.  And 
when  Jim  Wheelock — Dirty  Jim — with  his  whip  in  his  hand, 
came  up  and  playfully  pretended  to  pour  oil  on  her  hair,  and  she 
laughingly  struck  at  him  with  a  handful  of  straw,  Will  wouldn't 
have  looked  at  her  if  she  had  called  him  by  name. 

She  looked  so  bright  and  charming  in  her  snowy  apron  and  her 
boy's  straw  hat  tipped  jauntily  over  one  pink  ear,  that  David  and 
Steve  and  Bill,  and  even  Shep,  found  a  way  to  get  a  word  with 
her,  and  the  poor  fellows  in  the  high  straw-pile  looked  their  dis- 
appointment and  shook  their  forks  in  mock  rage  at  the  lucky  dogs 
on  the  ground.  But  Will  worked  on  like  a  fiend,  while  the  dapples 
of  light  and  shade  fell  on  the  bright  face  of  the  merry  girl. 


1 6  Main-Travelled  Roads 

To  save  his  soul  from  hell-flames  he  couldn't  have  gone  over 
there  and  smiled  at  her.  It  was  impossible.  A  wall  of  bronze  seemed 
to  have  arisen  between  them.  Yesterday — last  night — seemed  a 
dream.  The  clasp  of  her  hands  at  his  neck,  the  touch  of  her  lips, 
were  like  the  caresses  of  an  ideal  in  some  revery  long  ago. 

As  night  drew  on  the  men  worked  with  a  steadier,  more  mechan- 
ical action.  No  one  spoke  now.  Each  man  was  intent  on  his  work. 
No  one  had  any  strength  or  breath  to  waste.  The  driver  on  his 
power,  changed  his  weight  on  weary  feet  and  whistled  and  sang  at 
the  tired  horses.  The  feeder,  his  face  gray  with  dust,  rolled  the 
grain  into  the  cylinder  so  evenly,  so  steadily,  so  swiftly  that  it  ran 
on  with  a  sullen,  booming  roar.  Far  up  on  the  straw-pile  the  stack- 
ers worked  with  the  steady,  rhythmic  action  of  men  rowing  a  boat, 
their  figures  looming  vague  and  dim  in  the  flying  dust  and  chair, 
outlined  against  the  glorious  yellow-  and  orange-tinted  clouds. 

"Phe-e-eew-££,"  whistled  the  driver  with  the  sweet,  cheery,  ris- 
ing notes  of  a  bird.  "Chk,  chk,  chk\  Phe-e-eew-e!  Go  on  there, 
boys!  Chk,  chk,  chk  I  Step  up  there,  Dan,  step  up!  (Snapl)  Phe-e 
eew-ee !  G'-wan — g'-wan,  g'-wan !  Chk,  chk,  chk  \  Wheest,  wheest, 
wheestICA*,  chk  I" 

In  the  house  the  women  were  setting  the  table  for  supper.  The 
sun  had  gone  down  behind  the  oaks,  flinging  glorious  rose-color 
and  orange  shadows  along  the  edges  of  the  slate-blue  clouds.  Agnes 
stopped  her  work  at  the  kitchen  window  to  look  up  at  the  sky,  and 
cry  silently.  "What  was  the  matter  with  Will  ?"  She  felt  a  sort  of 
distrust  of  him  now.  She  thought  she  knew  him  so  well,  but  now 
he  was  so  strange. 

"Come,  Aggie,"  said  Mrs.  Dingman,  "they're  gettin*  'most 
down  to  the  bottom  of  the  stack.  They'll  be  pilin'  in  here  soon." 

"Phe-e-eew-ee!  G'-wan,  Doll!  G'-wan,  boys!  Chk,  chk,  chkl 
Phe-e-eew-ee!"  called  the  driver  out  in  the  dusk,  cheerily  swinging 
the  whip  over  the  horses'  backs.  Boom-oo-oo-ooml  roared  the  ma- 
chine, with  a  muffled,  monotonous,  solemn  tone.  "G'-wan,  boys! 
G'-wan,  g'-wan!" 

Will  had  worked  unceasingly  all  day.  His  muscles  ached  with 
fatigue.  His  hands  trembled.  He  clenched  his  teeth,  however, 


A  Branch  Road  17 

and  worked  on,  determined  not  to  yield.  He  wanted  them  to  under- 
stand that  he  could  do  as  much  pitching  as  any  of  them,  and  read 
Caesar's  Commentaries  beside.  It  seemed  as  if  each  bundle  were 
the  last  he  could  raise.  The  sinews  of  his  wrist  pained  him  so ;  they 
seemed  swollen  to  twice  their  natural  size.  But  still  he  worked  on 
grimly,  while  the  dusk  fell  and  the  air  grew  chill. 

At  last  the  bottom  bundle  was  pitched  up,  and  he  got  down  on 
his  knees  to  help  scrape  the  loose  wheat  into  baskets.  What  a  sweet 
relief  it  was  to  kneel  down,  to  release  the  fork,  and  let  the  worn 
and  cramping  muscles  settle  into  rest!  A  new  note  came  into  the 
driver's  voice,  a  soothing  tone,  full  of  kindness  and  admiration  for 
the  work  his  teams  had  done. 

"Wo-o-o,  lads!  Stiddy-y-y,  boys!  Wo-o-o,  there,  Dan.  Stiddy, 
stiddy,  old  man!  Ho,  there!"  The  cylinder  took  on  a  lower  key, 
with  short,  rising  yells,  as  it  ran  empty  for  a  moment.  The 
horses  had  been  going  so  long  that  they  came  to  a  stop  reluctantly. 
At  last  David  called,  "Turn  out!"  The  men  seized  the  ends  of 
the  sweep,  David  uncoupled  the  tumbling-rods,  and  Shep  slowly 
shoved  a  sheaf  of  grain  into  the  cylinder,  choking  it  into  silence. 

The  stillness  and  the  dusk  were  very  impressive.  So  long  had 
the  bell-metal  cog-wheel  sung  its  deafening  song  into  his  ear  that, 
as  he  walked  away  into  the  dusk,  Will  had  a  weird  feeling  of  being 
suddenly  deaf,  and  his  legs  were  so  numb  that  he  could  hardly  feel 
the  earth.  He  stumbled  away  like  a  man  paralyzed. 

He  took  out  his  handkerchief,  wiped  the  dust  from  his  face  as 
best  he  could,  shook  his  coat,  dusted  his  shoulders  with  a  grain- 
sack,  and  was  starting  away,  when  Mr.  Dingman,  a  rather  feeble, 
elderly  man,  came  up. 

"Come,  Will,  supper's  all  ready.  Go  in  and  eat." 

"I  guess  I'll  go  home  to  supper." 

"Oh,  no ;  that  won't  do.  The  women'll  be  expecting  you  to  stay." 

The  men  were  laughing  at  the  well,  the  warm  yellow  light  shone 
from  the  kitchen,  the  chill  air  making  it  seem  very  inviting,  and 
she  was  there — waiting!  But  the  demon  rose  in  him.  He  knew 
Agnes  would  expect  him,  and  she  would  cry  that  night  with 
disappointment,  but  his  face  hardened.  "I  guess  I'll  go  home,"  he 


1 8  Main-Travelled  Roads 

said,  and  his  tone  was  relentless.  He  turned  and  walked  away, 
hungry,  tired — so  tired  he  stumbled,  and  so  unhappy  he  could 
have  wept. 

II 

On  Thursday  the  county  fair  was  to  be  held.  The  fair  is  one  of 
the  gala-days  of  the  year  in  the  country  districts  of  the  West,  and 
one  of  the  times  when  the  country  lover  rises  above  expense  to  the 
extravagance  of  hiring  a  top-buggy,  in  which  to  take  his  sweet- 
heart to  the  neighboring  town. 

It  was  customary  to  prepare  for  this  long  beforehand,  for  the 
demand  for  top-buggies  was  so  great  the  liveryman  grew  dictatorial, 
and  took  no  chances.  Slowly  but  surely  the  country  beaux  began 
to  compete  with  the  clerks,  and  in  many  cases  actually  outbid  them, 
as  they  furnished  their  own  horses  and  could  bid  higher,  in  conse- 
quence, on  the  carnages. 

Will  had  secured  his  brother's  "rig,"  and  early  on  Thursday 
morning  he  was  at  work,  busily  washing  the  mud  from  the  carriage, 
dusting  the  cushions,  and  polishing  up  the  buckles  and  rosettes  on 
his  horses'  harnesses.  It  was  a  beautiful,  crisp,  clear  dawn — the 
ideal  day  for  a  ride ;  and  Will  was  singing  as  he  worked.  He  had 
regained  his  real  self,  and,  having  passed  through  a  bitter  period 
of  shame,  was  now  joyous  with  anticipation  of  forgiveness.  He 
looked  forward  to  the  day,  with  its  chances  of  doing  a  thousand 
little  things  to  show  his  regret  and  his  love. 

He  had  not  seen  Agnes  since  Monday;  Tuesday  he  did  not  go 
back  to  help  thresh,  and  Wednesday  he  had  been  obliged  to  go  to 
town  to  see  about  board  for  the  coming  term;  but  he  felt  sure  of 
her.  It  had  all  been  arranged  the  Sunday  before ;  she'd  expect  him, 
and  he  was  to  call  at  eight  o'clock. 

He  polished  up  the  colts  with  merry  tick-tack  of  the  brush  and 
comb,  and  after  the  last  stroke  on  their  shining  limbs,  threw  his 
tools  in  the  box  and  went  to  the  house. 

"Pretty  sharp  last  night,"  said  his  brother  John,  who  was  scrub- 
bing his  face  at  the  cistern. 


A  Branch  Road  19 

"Should  say  so  by  that  rim  of  ice,"  Will  replied,  dipping  his 
hands  into  the  icy  water. 

"I  ought  'o  stay  home  to-day  and  dig  'tates,"  continued  the  older 
man,  thoughtfully,  as  they  went  into  the  woodshed  and  wiped 
consecutively  on  the  long  roller-towel.  "Some  o'  them  Early  Rose 
lay  right  on  top  o'  the  ground.  They'll  get  nipped,  sure." 

"Oh,  I  guess  not.  You'd  better  go,  Jack;  you  don't  get  away 
very  often.  And  then  it  would  disappoint  Nettie  and  the  children 
so.  Their  little  hearts  are  overflowing,"  he  ended,  as  the  door 
opened  and  two  sturdy  little  boys  rushed  out. 

"B'ekfuss,  poppa;  all  yeady!" 

The  kitchen  table  was  set  near  the  stove ;  the  window  let  in  the 
sun,  and  the  smell  of  sizzling  sausages  and  the  aroma  of  coffee  filled 
the  room. 

The  kettle  was  doing  its  duty  cheerily,  and  the  wife,  with 
flushed  face  and  smiling  eyes,  was  hurrying  to  and  fro,  her  heart 
full  of  anticipation  of  the  day's  outing. 

There  was  a  hilarity  almost  like  some  strange  intoxication  on 
the  part  of  the  two  children.  They  danced  and  chattered  and 
clapped  their  chubby  brown  hands  and  ran  to  the  windows  cease- 
lessly. 

"Is  yuncle  Will  goin'  yide  nour  buggy?" 

"Yus ;  the  buggy  and  the  colts." 

"Is  he  goin'  to  take  his  girl?" 

Will  blushed  a  little  and  John  roared. 

"Yes,  I'm  goin' " 

"Is  Aggie  your  girl?" 

"H'yer!  h'yer!  young  man,"  called  John,  "you're  gettin*  per- 
sonal." 

"Well,  set  up!"  said  Nettie,  and  with  a  good  deal  of  clatter  they 
drew  around  the  cheerful  table. 

Will  had  already  begun  to  see  the  pathos,  the  pitiful  significance 
of  his  great  joy  over  a  day's  outing,  and  he  took  himself  a  little  to 
task  at  his  own  selfish  freedom.  He  resolved  to  stay  at  home  some 
time  and  let  Nettie  go  in  his  place.  A  few  hours  in  the  middle  of 
the  day  on  Sunday,  three  or  four  holidays  in  summer;  the  rest  of 


2O  Main-Travelled  Roads 

the  year,  for  this  cheerful  little  wife  and  her  patient  husband,  was 
made  up  of  work — work  which  accomplished  little  and  brought 
them  almost  nothing  that  was  beautiful. 

While  they  were  eating  breakfast,  teams  began  to  clatter  by, 
huge  lumber-wagons  with  three  seats  across,  and  a  boy  or  two 
jouncing  up  and  down  with  the  dinner  baskets  near  the  end-gate. 
The  children  rushed  to  the  window  each  time  to  announce  who 
it  was  and  how  many  there  were  in. 

But  as  Johnny  said  "firteen"  each  time,  and  Ned  wavered  between 
"seven"  and  "sixteen,"  it  was  doubtful  if  they  could  be  relied  upon. 
They  had  very  little  appetite,  so  keen  was  their  anticipation  of  the 
ride  and  the  wonderful  sights  before  them.  Their  little  hearts 
shuddered  with  joy  at  every  fresh  token  of  preparation — a  joy  that 
made  Will  say,  "Poor  little  men!" 

They  vibrated  between  the  house  and  the  barn  while  the  chores 
were  being  finished,  and  their  happy  cries  started  the  young  roosters 
into  a  renewed  season  of  crowing.  And  when  at  last  the  wagon  was 
brought  out  and  the  horses  hitched  to  it,  they  danced  like  mad 
sprites. 

After  they  had  driven  away,  Will  brought  out  the  colts,  hitched 
them  in,  and  drove  them  to  the  hitching-post.  Then  he  leisurely 
dressed  himself  in  his  best  suit,  blacked  his  boots  with  considerable 
exertion,  and  at  about  7.30  o'clock  climbed  into  his  carriage  and 
gathered  up  the  reins. 

He  was  quite  happy  again.  The  crisp,  bracing  air,  the  strong 
pull  of  the  spirited  young  team,  put  all  thought  of  sorrow  behind 
him.  He  had  planned  it  all  out.  He  would  first  put  his  arm  round 
her  and  kiss  her — there  would  not  need  to  be  any  words  to  tell  her 
how  sorry  and  ashamed  he  was.  She  would  know! 

Now,  when  he  was  alone  and  going  toward  her  on  a  beautiful 
morning,  the  anger  and  btiterness  of  Monday  fled  away,  became 
unreal,  and  the  sweet  dream  of  the  Sunday  parting  grew  the  reality. 
She  was  waiting  for  him  now.  She  had  on  her  pretty  blue  dress, 
and  the  wide  hat  that  always  made  her  look  so  arch.  He  had  said 
about  eight  o'clock. 

The  swift  team  was  carrying  him  along  the  crossroad,  which  was 


A  Branch  Road  21 

little  travelled,  and  he  was  alone  with  his  thoughts.  He  fell  again 
upon  his  plans.  Another  year  at  school  for  them  both,  and  then 
he'd  go  into  a  law  office.  Judge  Brown  had  told  him  he'd  give 
him 

"Whoa!  Ho!" 

There  was  a  swift  lurch  that  sent  him  flying  over  the  dasher. 
A  confused  vision  of  a  roadside  ditch  full  of  weeds  and  bushes, 
and  then  he  felt  the  reins  in  his  hands  and  heard  the  snorting  horses 
trample  on  the  hard  road. 

He  rose  dizzy,  bruised,  and  covered  with  dust.  The  team  he 
held  securely  and  soon  quieted.  The  cause  of  the  accident  was 
plain;  the  right  fore-wheel  had  come  off,  letting  the  front  of  the 
buggy  drop.  He  unhitched  the  excited  team  from  the  carriage, 
drove  them  to  the  fence  and  tied  them  securely,  then  went  back  to 
find  the  wheel,  and  the  burr  whose  failure  to  hold  its  place  had 
done  all  the  mischief.  He  soon  had  the  wheel  on,  but  to  find  the 
burr  was  a  harder  task.  Back  and  forth  he  ranged,  looking,  scrap- 
ing in  the  dust,  searching  the  weeds. 

He  knew  that  sometimes  a  wheel  will  run  without  the  burr  for 
many  rods  before  coming  off,  and  so  each  time  he  extended  his 
search.  He  traversed  the  entire  half  mile  several  times,  each  time 
his  rage  and  disappointment  getting  more  bitter.  He  ground  his 
teeth  in  a  fever  of  vexation  and  dismay. 

He  had  a  vision  of  Agnes  waiting,  wondering  why  he  did  not 
come.  It  was  this  vision  that  kept  him  from  seeing  the  burr  in  the 
wheel-track,  partly  covered  by  a  clod.  Once  he  passed  it  looking 
wildly  at  his  watch,  which  was  showing  nine  o'clock.  Another  time 
he  passed  it  with  eyes  dimmed  with  a  mist  that  was  almost  tears 
of  anger. 

There  is  no  contrivance  that  will  replace  an  axle-burr,  and  farm- 
yards have  no  unused  axle-burrs,  and  so  Will  searched.  Each 
moment  he  said:  "I'll  give  it  up,  get  onto  one  of  the  horses,  and 
go  down  and  tell  her."  But  searching  for  a  lost  axle-burr  is  like 
fishing;  the  searcher  expects  each  moment  to  find  it.  And  so  he 
groped,  and  ran  breathlessly,  furiously,  back  and  forth,  and  at  last 


22  Main-Travelled  Roads 

kicked  away  the  clod  that  covered  it,  and  hurried,  hot  and  dusty, 
cursing  his  stupidity,  back  to  the  team. 

It  was  ten  o'clock  as  he  climbed  again  into  the  buggy,  and  started 
his  team  on  a  swift  trot  down  the  road.  What  would  she  think? 
He  saw  her  now  with  tearful  eyes  and  pouting  lips.  She  was  sitting 
at  the  window,  with  hat  and  gloves  on;  the  rest  had  gone,  and 
she  was  waiting  for  him. 

But  she'd  know  something  had  hapepened,  because  he  had  prom- 
ised to  be  there  at  eight.  He  had  told  her  what  team  he'd  have. 
(He  had  forgotten  at  this  moment  the  doubt  and  distrust  he  had 
given  her  on  Monday.)  She'd  know  he'd  surely  come. 

But  there  was  no  smiling  or  tearful  face  watching  at  the  win- 
dow as  he  came  down  the  lane  at  a  tearing  pace,  and  turned  into 
the  yard.  The  house  was  silent,  and  the  curtains  down.  The  silence 
sent  a  chill  to  his  heart.  Something  rose  up  in  his  throat  to  choke 
him. 

"Agnes!"  he  called.  "Hello!  I'm  here  at  last!" 

There  was  no  reply.  As  he  sat  there  the  part  he  had  played  on 
Monday  came  back  to  him.  She  may  be  sick!  he  thought,  with  a 
cold  thrill  of  fear. 

An  old  man  came  round  the  corner  of  the  house  with  a  potato 
fork  in  his  hands,  his  teeth  displayed  in  a  grin. 

"She  ain't  here.  She's  gone." 

"Gone!" 

"Yes — more'n  an  hour  ago." 

"Who'd  she  go  with?" 

"Ed  Kinney,"  said  the  old  fellow,  with  a  malicious  grin.  "I 
guess  your  goose  is  cooked." 

Will  lashed  the  horses  into  a  run,  and  swung  round  the  yard 
and  out  of  the  gate.  His  face  was  white  as  a  dead  man's,  and  his 
teeth  were  set  like  a  vise.  He  glared  straight  ahead.  The  team  ran 
wildly,  steadily  homeward,  while  their  driver  guided  them  uncon- 
sciously without  seeing  them.  His  mind  was  filled  with  a  tempest 
of  rages,  despairs,  and  shames. 

That  ride  he  will  never  forget.  In  it  he  threw  away  all  his 
plans.  He  gave  up  his  year's  schooling.  He  gave  up  his  law  aspira- 


A  Branch  Road  23 

tions.  He  deserted  his  brother  and  his  friends.  In  the  dizzying 
whirl  of  passions  he  had  only  one  clear  idea — to  get  away,  to  go 
West,  to  escape  from  the  sneers  and  laughter  of  his  neighbors,  and 
to  make  her  suffer  by  it  all. 

He  drove  into  the  yard,  did  not  stop  to  unharness  the  team,  but 
rushed  into  the  house,  and  began  packing  his  trunk.  His  plan  was 
formed.  He  would  drive  to  Cedarville,  and  hire  some  one  to  bring 
the  team  back.  He  had  no  thought  of  anything  but  the  shame,  the 
insult,  she  had  put  upon  him.  Her  action  on  Monday  took  on  the 
same  levity  it  wore  then,  and  excited  him  in  the  same  way.  He  saw 
her  laughing  with  Ed  over  his  dismay.  He  sat  down  and  wrote  a 
letter  to  her  at  last — a  letter  that  came  from  the  ferocity  of  the 
mediaeval  savage  in  him: 

"If  you  want  to  go  to  hell  with  Ed  Kinney,  you  can.  I  won't  say 
a  word.  That's  where  he'll  take  you.  You  won't  see  me  again." 

This  he  signed  and  sealed,  and  then  he  bowed  his  head  and  wept 
like  a  girl.  But  his  tears  did  not  soften  the  effect  of  the  letter.  It 
went  as  straight  to  its  mark  as  he  meant  it  should.  It  tore  a  seared 
and  ragged  path  to  an  innocent,  happy  heart,  and  he  took  a  savage 
pleasure  in  the  thought  of  it  as  he  rode  away  in  the  cars  toward 
the  South. 

Ill 

The  seven  years  lying  between  1880  and  1887  made  a  great 
change  in  Rock  River  and  in  the  adjacent  farming  land.  Signs 
changed  and  firms  went  out  of  business  with  characteristic  Western 
ease  of  shift.  The  trees  grew  rapidly,  dwarfing  the  houses  beneath 
them,  and  contrasts  of  newness  and  decay  thickened. 

Will  found  the  country  changed,  as  he  walked  along  the  dusty 
road  from  Rock  River  toward  "The  Corners."  The  landscape  was 
at  its  fairest  and  liberalest,  with  its  seas  of  corn,  deep-green  and 
moving  with  a  mournful  rustle,  in  sharp  contrast  to  its  flashing 
blades ;  its  gleaming  fields  of  barley,  and  its  wheat  already  mottled 
with  soft  gold  in  the  midst  of  its  pea-green. 

The  changes  were  in  the  hedges,  grown  higher,  in  the  greater 
predominance  of  cornfields  and  cattle  pastures,  and  especially  in 


24  Main-Travelled  Roads 

the  destruction  of  homes.  As  he  passed  on,  Will  saw  the  grass 
growing  and  cattle  feeding  on  a  dozen  places  where  homes  had 
once  stood.  They  had  given  place  to  the  large  farm  and  the  stock- 
raiser.  Still  the  whole  scene  was  bountiful  and  beautiful  to  the  eye. 

It  was  especially  grateful  to  Will,  for  he  had  spent  nearly  all  his 
years  of  absence  among  the  rocks,  treeless  swells,  and  bleak  cliffs 
of  the  Southwest.  The  crickets  rising  before  his  dusty  feet  appeared 
to  him  something  sweet  and  suggestive,  and  the  cattle  feeding  in 
the  clover  moved  him  to  deep  thought — they  were  so  peaceful  and 
slow  motioned. 

As  he  reached  a  little  popple  tree  by  the  roadside,  he  stopped, 
removed  his  broad-brimmed  hat,  put  his  elbows  on  the  fence,  and 
looked  hungrily  upon  the  scene.  The  sky  was  deeply  blue,  with 
only  here  and  there  a  huge,  heavy,  slow-moving,  massive,  sharply 
outlined  cloud  sailing  like  a  berg  of  ice  in  a  shoreless  sea  of  azure. 

In  the  fields  the  men  were  harvesting  the  ripened  oats  and 
barley,  and  the  sound  of  their  machines  clattering,  now  low,  now 
loud,  came  to  his  ears.  Flies  buzzed  near  him,  and  a  kingbird  clat- 
tered overhead.  He  noticed  again,  as  he  had  many  a  time  when  a 
boy,  that  the  softened  sound  of  the  far-off  reaper  was  at  times 
exactly  like  the  hum  of  a  bluebottle  fly  buzzing  heedlessly  about 
his  ears. 

A  slender  and  very  handsome  young  man  was  shocking  grain 
near  the  fence,  working  so  desperately  he  did  not  see  Will  until 
greeted  by  him.  He  looked  up,  replied  to  the  greeting,  but  kept 
on  until  he  had  finished  his  last  stook;  then  he  came  to  the  shade 
of  the  tree  and  took  off  his  hat. 

"Nice  day  to  sit  under  a  tree  and  fish." 

Will  smiled.  "I  ought  to  know  you,  I  suppose;  I  used  to  live 
here  years  ago." 

"Guess  not;  we  came  in  three  years  ago." 

The  young  man  was  quick-spoken  and  pleasant  to  look  at.  Will 
felt  freer  with  him. 

"Are  the  Kinneys  still  living  over  there?"  He  nodded  at  a  group 
of  large  buildings. 

"Tom  lives  there.  Old  man  lives  with  Ed.  Tom  ousted  the 


A  Branch  Road  25 

old  man  some  way,  nobody  seems  to  know  how,  and  so  he  lives  with 
Ed." 

Will  wanted  to  ask  after  Agnes,  but  hardly  felt  able.  "I  s'pose 
John  Hannan  is  on  his  old  farm?" 

"Yes.  Got  a  good  crop  this  year." 

Will  looked  again  at  the  fields  of  rustling  wheat  over  which 
the  clouds  rippled,  and  said  with  an  air  of  conviction:  "This  lays 
over  Arizony,  dead  sure." 

"You're  from  Arizony,  then?" 

"Yes — a  good  ways  from  it,"  Will  replied,  in  a  way  that  stopped 
further  question.  "Good  luck!"  he  added,  as  he  walked  on  down 
the  road  toward  the  creek,  musing. 

"And  the  spring — I  wonder  if  that's  there  yet.  I'd  like  a  drink." 
The  sun  seemed  hotter  than  at  noon,  and  he  walked  slowly.  At 
the  bridge  that  spanned  the  meadow  brook,  just  where  it  widened 
over  a  sandy  ford,  he  paused  again.  He  hung  over  the  rail  and 
looked  at  the  minnows  swimming  there. 

"I  wonder  if  they're  the  same  identical  chaps  that  used  to  boil 
and  glitter  there  when  I  was  a  boy — looks  so.  Men  change  from 
one  generation  to  another,  but  the  fish  remain  the  same.  The  same 
eternal  procession  of  types.  I  suppose  Darwin  'ud  say  their  environ- 
ment remains  the  same." 

He  hung  for  a  long  time  over  the  railing,  thinking  of  a  vast 
number  of  things,  mostly  vague,  fitting  things,  looking  into  the 
clear  depths  of  the  brook,  and  listening  to  the  delicious  liquid  note 
of  a  blackbird  swinging  on  the  willow.  Red  lilies  starred  the  grass 
with  fire,  and  golden-rod  and  chicory  grew  everywhere ;  purple  and 
orange  and  yellow-green  the  prevailing  tints. 

Suddenly  a  water-snake  wriggled  across  the  dark  pool  above  the 
ford  and  the  minnows  disappeared  under  the  shadow  of  the  bridge. 
Then  Will  sighed,  lifted  his  head  and  walked  on.  There  seemed  to 
be  something  prophetic  in  it,  and  he  drew  a  long  breath.  That's 
the  way  his  plans  broke  and  faded  away. 

Human  life  does  not  move  with  the  regularity  of  a  clock.  In 
living  there  are  gaps  and  silences  when  the  soul  stands  still  in  its 
flight  through  abysses — and  there  come  times  of  trial  and  times 


26  Main-Travelled  Roads 

of  struggle  when  we  grow  old  without  knowing  it.  Body  and  soul 
change  appallingly. 

Seven  years  of  hard,  busy  life  had  made  changes  in  Will. 

His  face  had  grown  bold,  resolute,  and  rugged;  some  of  its 
delicacy  and  all  of  its  boyish  quality  was  gone.  His  figure  was 
stouter,  erect  as  of  old,  but  less  graceful.  He  bore  himself  like  a 
man  accustomed  to  look  out  for  himself  in  all  kinds  of  places.  It 
was  only  at  times  that  there  came  into  his  deep  eyes  a  preoccupied, 
almost  sad,  look  which  showed  kinship  with  his  old  self. 

This  look  was  on  his  face  as  he  walked  toward  the  clump  of 
trees  on  the  right  of  the  road. 

He  reached  the  grove  of  popple  trees  and  made  his  way  at  once 
to  the  spring.  When  he  saw  it,  he  was  again  shocked.  They  had 
allowed  it  to  fill  with  leaves  and  dirt! 

Overcome  by  the  memories  of  the  past,  he  flung  himself  down 
on  the  cool  and  shadowy  bank,  and  gave  himself  up  to  the  bitter- 
sweet reveries  of  a  man  returning  to  his  boyhood's  home.  He  was 
filled  somehow  with  a  strange  and  powerful  feeling  of  the  passage 
of  time;  with  a  vague  feeling  of  the  mystery  and  elusiveness  of 
human  life.  The  leaves  whispered  it  overhead,  the  birds  sang  it 
in  chorus  with  the  insects,  and  far  above,  in  the  measureless  spaces 
of  sky,  the  hawk  told  it  in  the  silence  and  majesty  of  his  flight 
from  cloud  to  cloud. 

It  was  a  feeling  hardly  to  be  expressed  in  words — one  of  those 
emotions  whose  springs  lie  far  back  in  the  brain.  He  lay  so  still  the 
chipmunks  came  curiously  up  to  his  very  feet,  only  to  scurry  away 
when  he  stirred  like  a  sleeper  in  pain. 

He  had  cut  himself  off  entirely  from  the  life  at  The  Corners. 
He  had  sent  money  home  to  John,  but  had  concealed  his  own 
address  carefully.  The  enormity  of  his  folly  now  came  back  to  him, 
racking  him  till  he  groaned. 

He  heard  the  patter  of  feet  and  half-mumbled  monologue  of  a 
running  child.  He  roused  up  and  faced  a  small  boy,  who  started 
back  in  terror  like  a  wild  fawn.  He  was  deeply  surprised  to  find  a 
man  there,  where  only  boys  and  squirrels  now  came.  He  stuck  his 
fist  in  his  eye,  and  was  backing  away  when  Will  spoke. 


A  Branch  Road  27 

"Hold  on,  sonny!  Nobody's  hit  you.  Come,  I  ain't  goin'  to  eat 
yeh."  He  took  a  bit  of  money  from  his  pocket.  "Come  here  and 
tell  me  your  name.  I  want  to  talk  with  you." 

The  boy  crept  upon  the  dime. 

Will  smiled.  "You  ought  to  be  a  Kinney.  What  is  your  name?" 

"Tomath  Dickinthon  Kinney.  I'm  thix  and  a  half.  I've  got  a 
colt,"  lisped  the  youngster,  breathlessly,  as  he  crept  toward  the 
money. 

"Oh,  you  are,  eh?  Well,  now  are  you  Tom's  boy,  or  Ed's?" 

"Tomth's  boy.  Uncle  Ed  heth  got  a  little " 

"Ed  got  a  boy?" 

"Yeth,  thir — a  lil  baby.  Aunt  Agg  letth  me  hold  'im." 

"Agg!  Is  that  her  name?" 

"Tha'th  what  Uncle  Ed  callth  her." 

The  man's  head  fell,  and  it  was  a  long  time  before  he  asked 
his  next  question. 

"How  is  she  anyhow?" 

"Purty  well,"  piped  the  boy,  with  a  prolongation  of  the  last 
words  into  a  kind  of  chirp.  "She'th  been  thick,  though,"  he  added. 

"Been  sick?  How  long?" 

"Oh,  a  long  time.  But  she  ain't  thick  abed;  she'th  awful  poor, 
though.  Gran'pa  thayth  she'th  poor  ath  a  rake." 

"Oh,  he  does,  eh?" 

"Yeth,  thir.  Uncle  Ed  he  jawth  her,  then  she  crieth." 

Will's  anger  and  remorse  broke  out  in  a  groaning  curse.  "O  my 
God !  I  see  it  all.  That  great  lunkin  houn'  has  made  life  a  hell  for 
her."  Then  that  letter  came  back  to  his  mind — he  had  never  been 
able  to  put  it  out  of  his  mind — he  never  would  till  he  saw  her  and 
asked  her  pardon. 

"Here,  my  boy,  I  want  you  to  tell  me  some  more.  Where  does 
your  Aunt  Agnes  live?" 

"At  gran'pa'th.  You  know  where  my  gran'pa  livth?" 

"Well,  you  do.  Now  I  want  you  to  take  this  letter  to  her.  Give 
it  to  her."  He  wrote  a  little  note  and  folded  it.  "Now  dust  out  o' 
here." 

The  boy  slipped  away  through  the  trees  like  a  rabbit;  his  little 


28  Main-Travelled  Roads 

brown  feet  hardly  rustled.  He  was  like  some  little  wood-animal. 
Left  alone,  the  man  fell  back  into  a  revery  which  lasted  till  the 
shadows  fell  on  the  thick  little  grove  around  the  spring.  He  rose 
at  last,  and  taking  his  stick  in  hand,  walked  out  to  the  wood  again 
and  stood  there  gazing  at  the  sky.  He  seemed  loath  to  go  farther. 
The  sky  was  full  of  flame-colored  clouds  floating  in  a  yellow-green 
sea,  where  bars  of  faint  pink  streamed  broadly  away. 

As  he  stood  there,  feeling  the  wind  lift  his  hair,  listening  to  the 
crickets'  ever-present  crying,  and  facing  the  majesty  of  space,  a 
strange  sadness  and  despair  came  into  his  eyes. 

Drawing  a  quick  breath,  he  leaped  the  fence  and  was  about  going 
on  up  the  road,  when  he  heard,  at  a  little  distance,  the  sound  of  a 
drove  of  cattle  approaching,  and  he  stood  aside  to  allow  them  to 
pass.  They  snuffed  and  shied  at  the  silent  figure  by  the  fence,  and 
hurried  by  with  snapping  heels — a  peculiar  sound  that  made  Will 
smile  with  pleasure. 

An  old  man  was  driving  the  cows,  crying  out: 

"St— boy,  there!  Go  on  there!  Whay,  boss!" 

Will  knew  that  hard-featured,  wiry  old  man,  now  entering  his 
second  childhood  and  beginning  to  limp  painfully.  He  had  his 
hands  full  of  hard  clods  which  he  threw  impatiently  at  the  lum- 
bering animals. 

"Good-evening,  uncle!" 

"I  ain't  y'r  uncle,  young  man." 

His  dim  eyes  did  not  recognize  the  boy  he  had  chased  out  of  his 
plum  patch  years  before. 

"I  don't  know  yeh,  neither,"  he  added. 

"Oh,  you  will,  later  on.  I'm  from  the  East.  I'm  a  sort  of  a  rela- 
tive to  John  Hannan." 

"I  want  'o  know  if  y'  be!"  the  old  man  exclaimed,  peering  closer. 

"Yes.  I'm  just  up  from  Rock  River.  John's  harvesting,  I  s'pose?" 

"Yus." 

"Where's  the  youngest  one— Will?" 

"William?  Oh!  he's  a  bad  aig— he  lit  out  f'r  the  West  some- 
where. He  was  a  hard  boy.  He  stole  a  hatful  o'  my  plums  once. 


A  Branch  Road  29 

He  left  home  kind  o'  sudden.  He!  he!  I  s'pose  he  was  purty  well 
cut  up  jest  about  them  days." 

"How's  that?" 

The  old  man  chuckled. 

"Well,  y'  see,  they  was  both  courtin'  Agnes  then,  an'  my  son  cut 
William  out.  Then  William  he  lit  out  f'r  the  West,  Arizony,  'r 
California,  'r  somewhere  out  West.  Never  been  back  sence." 

"Ain't,  heh?" 

"No.  But  they  say  he's  makin'  a  terrible  lot  o'  money,"  the  old 
man  said  in  a  hushed  voice.  "But  the  way  he  makes  it  is  awful  scaly. 
I  tell  my  wife  if  I  had  a  son  like  that  an'  he'd  send  me  home  a 
bushelbasket  o'  money,  earnt  like  that,  I  wouldn't  touch  a  finger 
to  it — no  sir!" 

"You  wouldn't?  Why?" 

'  'Cause  it  ain't  right.  It  ain't  made  right  noway,  you " 

"But  how  is  it  made?  What's  the  feller's  trade?" 

"He's  a  gambler — that's  his  trade!  He  plays  cards,  and  every 
cent  is  bloody.  I  wouldn't  touch  such  money  nohow  you  could 
fix  it." 

"Wouldn't,  heh?"  The  young  man  straightened  up.  "Well, 
look-a-here,  old  man:  did  you  ever  hear  of  a  man  foreclosing  a 
mortgage  on  a  widow  and  two  boys,  getting  a  farm  f'r  one  quarter 
what  it  was  really  worth  ?  You  damned  old  hypocrite !  I  know  all 
about  you  and  your  whole  tribe — you  old  blood-sucker !" 

The  old  man's  jaw  fell;  he  began  to  back  away. 

"Your  neighbors  tell  some  good  stories  about  you.  Now  skip 
along  after  those  cows,  or  I'll  tickle  your  old  legs  for  you!" 

The  old  man,  appalled  and  dazed  at  this  sudden  change  of  man- 
ner, backed  away,  and  at  last  turned  and  racked  off  up  the  road, 
looking  back  with  a  wild  face,  at  which  the  young  man  laughed 
remorselessly. 

"The  doggoned  old  skeesucks!"  Will  soliloquized  as  he  walked 
up  the  road.  "So  that's  the  kind  of  a  character  he's  been  givin*  me!" 

"Hullo!  A  whippoorwill.  Takes  a  man  back  into  childhood — 
No,  dont  'whip  poor  Will' ;  he's  got  all  he  can  bear  now." 


30  Main-Travelled  Roads 

He  came  at  last  to  the  little  farm  Dingman  had  owned,  and  he 
stopped  in  sorrowful  surprise.  The  barn  had  been  moved  away, 
the  garden  ploughed  up,  and  the  house,  turned  into  a  granary, 
stood  with  boards  nailed  across  its  dusty,  cobwebbed  windows. 
The  tears  started  into  the  man's  eyes;  he  stood  staring  at 
it  silently. 

In  the  face  of  this  house  the  seven  years  that  he  had  last  lived 
stretched  away  into  a  wild  waste  of  time.  It  stood  as  a  symbol  of  his 
wasted,  ruined  life.  It  was  personal,  intimately  personal,  this  decay 
of  her  home. 

All  that  last  scene  came  back  to  him ;  the  booming  roar  of  the 
threshing-machine,  the  cheery  whistle  of  the  driver,  the  loud,  merry 
shouts  of  the  men.  He  remembered  how  warmly  the  lamp-light 
streamed  out  of  that  door  as  he  turned  away  tired,  hungry,  sullen 
with  rage  and  jealousy.  Oh,  if  he  had  only  had  the  courage  of  a 
man! 

Then  he  thought  of  the  boy's  words.  She  was  sick,  Ed  abused 
her.  She  had  met  her  punishment.  A  hundred  times  he  had  been 
over  the  whole  scene.  A  thousand  times  he  had  seen  her  at  the 
pump  smiling  at  Ed  Kinney,  the  sun  lighting  her  hair;  and  he 
never  thought  of  that  without  hardening. 

At  this  very  gate  he  had  driven  up  that  last  forenoon;  to  find 
that  she  had  gone  with  Ed.  He  had  lived  that  sickening,  depressing 
moment  over  many  times,  but  not  times  enough  to  keep  down  the 
bitter  passion  he  had  felt  then,  and  felt  now  as  he  went  over  it 
in  detail. 

He  was  so  happy  and  confident  that  morning,  so  perfectly  cer- 
tain that  all  would  be  made  right  by  a  kiss  and  a  cheery  jest.  And 
now!  Here  he  stood  sick  with  despair  and  doubt  of  all  the  world. 
He  turned  away  from  the  desolate  homestead  and  walked  on. 

"But  I'll  see  her — just  once  more.  And  then " 

And  again  the  mighty  significance,  responsibility  of  life,  fell  upon 
him.  He  felt,  as  young  people  seldom  do,  the  irrevocableness  of 
living,  the  determinate,  unalterable  character  of  living.  He  deter- 
mined to  begin  to  live  in  some  new  way — just  how  he  could  not 
say. 


A  Branch  Road  31 

IV 

Old  man  Kinney  and  his  wife  were  getting  their  Sunday-school 
lessons  with  much  bickering,  when  Will  drove  up  the  next  day  to 
the  dilapidated  gate  and  hitched  his  team  to  a  leaning-post  under 
the  oaks.  Will  saw  the  old  man's  head  at  the  open  window,  but 
no  one  else,  though  he  looked  eagerly  for  Agnes  as  he  walked  up 
the  familiar  path.  There  stood  the  great  oak  under  whose  shade 
he  had  grown  to  be  a  man.  How  close  the  great  tree  seemed  to 
stand  to  his  heart,  someway!  As  the  wind  stirred  in  the  leaves,  it 
was  like  a  rustle  of  greeting. 

In  that  old  house  they  had  all  lived,  and  his  mother  had  toiled 
for  thirty  years.  A  sort  of  prison  after  all.  There  they  were  all  born, 
and  there  his  father  and  his  little  sister  had  died.  And  then  it 
passed  into  old  Kinney's  hands. 

Walking  along  up  the  path  he  felt  a  serious  weakness  in  his 
limbs,  and  he  made  a  pretence  of  stopping  to  look  at  a  flower-bed 
containing  nothing  but  weeds.  After  seven  years  of  separation  he 
was  about  to  face  once  more  the  woman  whose  life  came  so  near 
being  a  part  of  his — Agnes,  now  a  wife  and  a  mother. 

How  would  she  look  ?  Would  her  face  have  that  old-time  peachy 
bloom,  her  mouth  that  peculiar  beautiful  curve  ?  She  was  large  and 
fair,  he  recalled,  hair  yellow  and  shining,  eyes  blue 

He  roused  himself.  This  was  nonsense!  He  was  trembling.  He 
composed  himself  by  looking  around  again. 

"The  old  scoundrel  has  let  the  weeds  choke  out  the  flowers  and 
surround  the  bee-hives.  Old  man  Kinney  never  believed  in  anything 
but  a  petty  utility." 

Will  set  his  teeth,  and  marched  up  to  the  door  and  struck  it  like 
a  man  delivering  a  challenge.  Kinney  opened  the  door,  and  started 
back  in  fear  when  he  saw  who  it  was. 

uHow  de  do?  How  de  do?"  said  Will,  walking  in,  his  eyes  fixed 
on  a  woman  seated  beyond,  a  child  in  her  lap. 

Agnes  rose,  without  a  word ;  a  fawn-like,  startled  widening  of 
the  eyes,  her  breath  coming  quick,  and  her  face  flushing.  They 


32  Main-Travelled  Roads 

couldn't  speak ;  they  only  looked  at  each  other  an  instant,  then  Will 
shivered,  passed  his  hand  over  his  eyes  and  sat  down. 

There  was  no  one  there  but  the  old  people,  who  were  looking 
at  him  in  bewilderment.  They  did  not  notice  any  confusion  in 
Agnes's  face.  She  recovered  first. 

"I'm  glad  to  see  you  back,  Will,"  she  said,  rising  and  putting 
the  sleeping  child  down  in  a  neighboring  room.  As  she  gave  him 
her  hand,  he  said: 

"I'm  glad  to  get  back,  Agnes.  I  hadn't  ought  to  have  gone." 
Then  he  turned  to  the  old  people: 

"I'm  Will  Hannan.  You  needn't  be  scared,  Daddy;  I  was 
jokin'  last  night." 

"Dew  tell!  I  want  'o  know!"  exclaimed  Granny.  "Wai,  I 
never!  An'  you're  my  little  Willy  boy  who  ust  'o  be  in  my  class? 
Well !  Well !  W'y  pa,  ain't  he  growed  tall !  Grew  handsome  tew. 
I  ust  'o  think  he  was  a  dretful  humly  boy;  but  my  sakes,  that 
mustache " 

"Wai,  he  gave  me  a  turrible  scare  last  night.  My  land!  scared 
me  out  of  a  year's  growth,"  cackled  the  old  man. 

This  gave  them  all  a  chance  to  laugh,  and  the  air  was  cleared.  It 
gave  Agnes  time  to  recover  herself,  and  to  be  able  to  meet  Will's 
eyes.  Will  himself  was  powerfully  moved ;  his  throat  swelled  and 
tears  came  to  his  eyes  every  time  he  looked  at  her. 

She  was  worn  and  wasted  incredibly.  The  blue  of  her  eyes 
seemed  dimmed  and  faded  by  weeping,  and  the  old-time  scarlet  of 
her  lips  had  been  washed  away.  The  sinews  of  her  neck  showed 
painfully  when  she  turned  her  head,  and  her  trembling  hands  were 
worn,  discolored,  and  lumpy  at  the  joints. 

Poor  girl!  She  knew  she  was  under  scrutiny,  and  her  eyes  felt 
hot  and  restless.  She  wished  to  run  away  and  cry,  but  she  dared 
not.  She  stayed,  while  Will  began  to  tell  her  of  his  life  and  to  ask 
questions  about  old  friends. 

The  old  people  took  it  up  and  relieved  her  of  any  share  in  it; 
and  Will,  seeing  that  she  was  suffering,  told  some  funny  stories 
which  made  the  old  people  cackle  in  spite  of  themselves. 

But  it  was  forced  merriment  on  Will's  part.  Once  or  twice 


A  Branch  Road  33 

Agnes  smiled,  with  just  a  little  flash  of  the  old-time  sunny  temper. 
But  there  was  no  dimple  in  the  cheek  now,  and  the  smile  had  more 
suggestion  of  an  invalid — or  even  a  skeleton.  He  was  almost  ready 
to  take  her  in  his  arms  and  weep,  her  face  appealed  so  pitifully  to 
him. 

"It's  most  time  f'r  Ed  to  be  gittin'  back,  ain't  it,  pa?" 

"Sh'd  say  't  was!  He  jest  went  over  to  Hobkirk's  to  trade 
horses.  It's  dretful  tryin'  to  me  to  have  him  go  off  tradin'  horse* 
on  Sunday.  Seems  if  he  might  wait  till  a  rainy  day,  *r  do  it 
evenin's.  I  never  did  believe  in  horse-tradin'  anyhow." 

"Have  y'  come  back  to  stay,  Willie?"  asked  the  old  lady. 

"Well — it's  hard  tellin',"  answered  Will,  looking  at  Agnes. 

"Well,  Agnes,  ain't  you  goin'  to  git  no  dinner?  I'm  'bout  ready 
f'r  dinner.  We  must  git  to  church  early  today.  Elder  Wheat  is 
goin'  to  preach,  an'  they'll  be  a  crowd.  He's  goin'  to  hold  com- 
munion." 

"You'll  stay  to  dinner,  Will?"  asked  Agnes. 

"Yes — if  you  wish  it." 

"I  do  wish  it." 

"Thank  you ;  I  want  to  have  a  good  visit  with  you.  I  don't  know 
when  I'll  see  you  again." 

As  she  moved  about,  getting  dinner  on  the  table,  Will  sat  with 
gloomy  face,  listening  to  the  "clack"  of  the  old  man.  The  room 
was  a  poor  little  sitting  room,  with  furniture  worn  and  shapeless; 
hardly  a  touch  of  pleasant  color,  save  here  and  there  a  little  bit 
of  Agnes's  handiwork.  The  lounge,  covered  with  calico,  was  rick- 
ety; the  rocking-chair  matched  it,  and  the  carpet  of  rags  was 
patched  and  darned  with  twine  in  twenty  places.  Everywhere  was 
the  influence  of  the  Kinneys.  The  furniture  looked  like  them,  in 
fact. 

Agnes  was  outwardly  calm,  but  her  real  distraction  did  not 
escape  Mrs.  Kinney's  hawk-like  eyes. 

"Well,  I  declare  if  you  hain't  put  the  butter  on  in  one  o'  my 
blue  chainy  saucers?  Now  you  know  I  don't  allow  that  saucer  to 
be  took  down  by  nobody.  I  don't  see  what's  got  into  yeh!  Any- 


34  Main-Travelled  Roads 

body'd  s'pose  you  never  see  any  comp'ny  b'fore — wouldn't  they, 
pa?" 

"Sh'd  say  th'  would,"  said  pa,  stopping  short  in  a  long  story 
about  Ed.  "Seems  if  we  couldn't  keep  anything  in  this  house  sep'- 
rit  from  the  rest.  Ed  he  uses  my  curry-comb " 

He  launched  out  a  long  list  of  grievances,  to  which  Will  shut 
his  ears  as  completely  as  possible,  and  was  thinking  how  to  stop  him, 
when  there  came  a  sudden  crash.  Agnes  had  dropped  a  plate. 

"Good  land  o'  Goshen!"  screamed  Granny.  "If  you  ain't  the 
worst  I  ever  see.  I'll  bet  that's  my  grapevine  plate.  If  it  is — Well, 
of  all  the  mercies,  it  ain't.  But  it  might  'a'  ben.  I  never  see  your 
beat — never !  That's  the  third  plate  since  I  came  to  live  here." 

"Oh,  look-a-here,  Granny,"  said  Will,  desperately,  "don't  make 
so  much  fuss  about  the  plate.  What's  it  worth,  anyway?  Here's  a 
dollar." 

Agnes  cried  quickly: 

"Oh,  don't  do  that,  Will !  It  ain't  her  plate.  It's  my  plate,  and 
I  can  break  every  plate  in  the  house  if  I  want  to,"  she  cried  de- 
fiantly. 

"Course  you  can,"  Will  agreed. 

"Wai,  she  can'tl  Not  while  Pm  around,"  put  in  Daddy.  "I've 
helped  to  pay  f'r  them  plates,  if  she  does  call  'em  her'n " 

"What  the  devul  is  all  this  row  about  ?  Agg,  can't  you  get  along 
without  stirring  up  the  old  folks  every  time  I'm  out  o'  the 
house?" 

The  speaker  was  Ed,  now  a  tall  and  slouchily  dressed  man  of 
thirty-two  or  three;  his  face  still  handsome  in  a  certain  dark, 
cleanly-cut  style,  but  he  wore  a  surly  look  as  he  lounged  in  with 
insolent  swagger,  clothed  in  greasy  overalls  and  a  hickory  shirt. 

"Hello,  Will !  I  heard  you'd  got  home.  John  told  me  as  I  came 
along." 

They  shook  hands,  and  Ed  slouched  down  on  the  lounge.  Will 
could  have  kicked  him  for  laying  the  blame  of  the  dispute  upon 
Agnes;  it  showed  him  in  a  flash  just  how  he  treated  her.  He  dis- 
dained to  quarrel;  he  simply  silenced  and  dominated  her. 

Will  asked  a  few  questions  about  crops,  with  such  grace  as  he 


A  Branch  Road  35 

could  show,  and  Ed,  with  keen  eyes  fixed  on  Will's  face,  talked 
easily  and  stridently. 

"Dinner  ready?"  he  asked  of  Agnes.  "Where's  Pete?" 

"He's  asleep." 

"All  right.  Let  'im  sleep.  Well,  let's  go  out  an'  set  up.  Come, 
Dad,  sling  away  that  Bible  and  come  to  grub.  Mother,  what  the 
devul  are  you  snifflin'  at?  Say,  now,  look  here!  If  I  hear  any  more 
about  this  row,  I'll  simply  let  you  walk  down  to  meetin'.  Come, 
Will,  set  up." 

He  led  the  way  into  the  little  kitchen  where  the  dinner  was  set. 

"What  was  the  row  about?  Hain't  been  breakin'  some  dish, 
Agg?" 

"Yes,  she  has,"  broke  in  the  old  lady. 

"One  o'  the  blue  ones?"  winked  Ed. 

"No,  thank  goodness,  it  was  a  white  one." 

"Well,  now,  111  git  into  that  dod-gasted  cubberd  some  day  an* 
break  the  whole  eternal  outfit.  I  ain't  goin'  to  have  this  damned 
jawin'  goin'  on,"  he  ended,  brutally  unconscious  of  his  own 
"jawin'." 

After  this  the  dinner  proceeded  in  comparative  silence,  Agnes 
sobbing  under  breath.  The  room  was  small  and  very  hot ;  the  table 
was  warped  so  badly  that  the  dishes  had  a  tendency  to  slide  to  the 
centre;  the  walls  were  bare  plaster,  grayed  with  time;  the  food 
was  poor  and  scant,  and  the  flies  absolutely  swarmed  upon  every- 
thing, like  bees.  Otherwise  the  room  was  clean  and  orderly. 

"They  say  you've  made  a  pile  o'  money  out  West,  Bill.  I'm  glad 
of  it.  We  fellers  back  here  don't  make  anything.  It's  a  dam  tight 
squeeze.  Agg,  it  seems  to  me  the  flies  are  devilish  thick  to-day. 
Can't  you  drive  'em  out?" 

Agnes  felt  that  she  must  vindicate  herself  a  little. 

"I  do  drive  'em  out,  but  they  come  right  in  again.  The  screen- 
door  is  broken  and  they  come  right  in." 

"I  told  Dad  to  fix  that  door." 

"But  he  won't  do  it  far  me." 

Ed  rested  his  elbows  on  the  table  and  fixed  his  bright  black  eyes 
on  his  father. 


36  Main-Travelled  Roads 

"Say,  what  d'  you  mean  by  actin'  like  a  mule?  I  swear  I'll  trade 
you  off  f'r  a  yaller  dog.  What  do  I  keep  you  round  here  for  any- 
way— to  look  purty?" 

"I  guess  I've  as  good  a  right  here  as  you  have,  Ed  Kinney." 

"Oh,  go  soak  y'r  head,  old  man.  If  you  don't  'tend  out  here 
a  little  better,  down  goes  your  meat-house !  I  won't  drive  you  down 
to  meetin'  till  you  promise  to  fix  that  door.  Hear  me!" 

Daddy  began  to  snivel.  Agnes  could  not  look  up  for  shame. 
Will  felt  sick.  Ed  laughed. 

"I  c'n  bring  the  old  man  to  terms  that  way;  he  can't  walk  very 
well  late  years,  an'  he  can't  drive  my  colt.  You  know  what  a  cuss 
I  used  to  be  about  fast  nags?  Well,  I'm  just  the  same.  Hobkirk's 
got  a  colt  I  want.  Say,  that  reminds  me :  your  team's  out  there  by 
the  fence.  I  forgot.  I'll  go  out  and  put  'em  up." 

"No,  never  mind ;  I  can't  stay  but  a  few  minutes." 

"Coin5  to  be  round  the  country  long?" 

"A  week— maybe." 

Agnes  looked  up  a  moment,  and  then  let  her  eyes  fall. 

"Coin' back  West,  I  s'pose?" 

"No.  May  go  East,  to  Europe,  mebbe." 

"The  devul  y'  say!  You  must  'a'  made  a  ten-strike  out  West." 

"They  say  it  didn't  come  lawful,"  piped  Daddy,  over  his  black- 
berries and  milk. 

"Oh,  you  shet  up,  who  wants  your  put-in  ?  Don't  work  in  any  o' 
your  Bible  on  us." 

Daddy  rose  to  go  into  the  other  room. 

"Hold  on,  old  man.  You  goin'  to  fix  that  door?" 

"Course  I  be,"  quavered  he. 

"Well  see  't  y'  do,  that's  all.  Now  get  on  y'r  duds,  an'  I'll  go  an' 
hitch  up."  He  rose  from  the  table.  "Don't  keep  me  waiting." 

He  went  out  unceremoniously,  and  Agnes  was  alone  with  Will. 

"Do  you  go  to  church?"  he  asked.  She  shook  her  head.  "No,  I 
don't  go  anywhere  now.  I  have  too  much  to  do ;  I  haven't  strength 
left.  And  I'm  not  fit  anyway." 

"Agnes,  I  want  to  say  something  to  you;  not  now — after  they're 
gone." 


A  Branch  Road  37 

He  went  into  the  other  room,  leaving  her  to  wash  the  dinner- 
things.  She  worked  on  in  a  curious,  almost  dazed  way,  a  dream  of 
something  sweet  and  irrevocable  in  her  eyes.  Will  represented  so 
much  to  her.  His  voice  brought  up  times  and  places  that  thrilled 
her  like  song.  He  was  associated  with  all  that  was  sweetest  and 
most  care-free  and  most  girlish  in  her  life. 

Ever  since  the  boy  had  handed  her  that  note  she  had  been  re- 
living those  days.  In  the  midst  of  her  drudgery  she  stopped  to 
dream — to  let  some  picture  come  back  into  her  mind.  She  was  a 
student  again  at  the  Seminary,  and  stood  in  the  recitation-room 
with  suffocating  beat  of  the  heart;  Will  was  waiting  outside — 
waiting  in  a  tremor  like  her  own,  to  walk  home  with  her  under 
the  maples. 

Then  she  remembered  the  painfully  sweet  mixture  of  pride  and 
fear  with  which  she  walked  up  the  aisle  of  the  little  church  behind 
him.  Her  pretty  new  gown  rustled,  the  dim  light  of  the  church 
had  something  like  romance  in  it,  and  he  was  so  strong  and  hand- 
some. Her  heart  went  out  in  a  great  silent  cry  to  God 

"Oh,  let  me  be  a  girl  again !" 

She  did  not  look  forward  to  happiness.  She  hadn't  power  to  look 
forward  at  all. 

As  she  worked,  she  heard  the  high,  shrill  voices  of  the  old  people 
as  they  bustled  about  and  nagged  at  each  other. 

"Ma,  where's  my  specticles?" 

"I  ain't  seen  y'r  specticles." 

"You  have,  too." 

"I  ain't  neither." 

"You  had  'em  this  forenoon." 

"Didn't  no  such  thing.  Them  was  my  own  brass-bowed  ones.  You 
had  your'n  jest  'fore  goin'  to  dinner.  If  you'd  put  'em  into  a 
proper  place  you'd  find  'em  again." 

"I  want  'o  know  if  I  would,"  the  old  man  snorted. 

"Wai,  you'd  orter  know." 

"Oh,  you're  awful  smart,  ain't  yeh  ?  You  never  have  no  trouble, 
and  use  mine— do  yeh?— an'  lose  'em  so  't  I  can't " 


38  Main-Travelled  Roads 

"And  if  this  is  the  thing  that  goes  on  when  I'm  here  it  must 
be  hell  when  visitors  are  gone,"  thought  Will. 

"Willy,  ain't  you  goin'  to  meetin'?" 

"No,  not  to-day.  I  want  to  visit  a  little  with  Agnes,  then  I've 
got  to  drive  back  to  John's." 

"Wall,  we  must  be  goin'.  Don't  you  leave  them  dishes  f  r  me  to 
wash,"  she  screamed  at  Agnes  as  she  went  out  the  door.  "An'  if 
we  don't  git  home  by  five,  them  caaves  orter  be  fed." 

As  Agnes  stood  at  the  door  to  watch  them  drive  away,  Will 
studied  her,  a  smothering  ache  in  his  heart  as  he  saw  how  thin  and 
bent  and  weary  she  was.  In  his  soul  he  felt  that  she  was  a  dying 
woman  unless  she  had  rest  and  tender  care. 

As  she  turned,  she  saw  something  in  his  face — a  pity  and  an 
agony  of  self-accusation — that  made  her  weak  and  white.  She  sank 
into  a  chair,  putting  her  hand  on  her  chest,  as  if  she  felt  a  failing 
of  breath.  Then  the  blood  came  back  to  her  face  and  her  eyes  filled 
with  tears. 

"Don't — don't  look  at  me  like  that,"  she  said  in  a  whisper.  His 
pity  hurt  her. 

At  sight  of  her  sitting  there  pathetic,  abashed,  bewildered,  like 
some  gentle  animal,  Will's  throat  contracted  so  that  he  could  not 
speak.  His  voice  came  at  last  in  one  terrific  cry 

"Oh,  Agnes,  for  God's  sake  forgive  me!"  He  knelt  by  her  side 
and  put  his  arm  about  her  shoulders  and  kissed  her  bowed  head.  A 
curious  numbness  involved  his  whole  body ;  his  voice  was  husky,  the 
tears  burned  in  his  eyes.  His  whole  soul  and  body  ached  with  his 
pity  and  his  remorseful,  self-accusing  wrath. 

"It  was  all  my  fault.  Lay  it  all  to  me.  ...  I  am  the  one  to 
bear  it.  ...  Oh,  I've  dreamed  a  thousand  times  of  sayin'  this  to 
you,  Aggie!  I  thought  if  I  could  only  see  you  again  and  ask  your 
forgiveness,  I'd — "  He  ground  his  teeth  together  in  his  assault 
upon  himself.  "I  threw  my  life  away  an'  killed  you — that's  what 
I  did!" 

He  rose,  and  raged  up  and  down  the  room  till  he  had  mastered 
himself. 

"What  did  you  think  I  meant  that  day  of  the  thrashing?"  he 


A  Branch  Road  39 

said,  turning  suddenly.  He  spoke  of  it  as  if  it  were  but  a  month  or 
two  past. 

She  lifted  her  head  and  looked  at  him  in  a  slow  way.  She  seemed 
to  be  remembering.  The  tears  lay  on  her  hollow  cheeks. 

"I  thought  you  was  ashamed  of  me.  I  didn't  know — why " 

He  uttered  a  snarl  of  self-disgust. 

"You  couldn't  know.  Nobody  could  tell  what  I  meant.  But  why 
didn't  you  write?  I  was  ready  to  come  back.  I  only  wanted  an 
excuse— only  a  line." 

"How  could  I,  Will — after  your  letter?" 

He  groaned,  and  turned  away. 

"And  Will,  I — I  got  mad  too.  I  couldn't  write." 

"Oh,  that  letter —  I  can  see  every  line  of  it!  F'r  God's  sake, 
don't  think  of  it  again !  But  I  didn't  think,  even  when  I  wrote  that 
letter,  that  I'd  find  you  where  you  are.  I  didn't  think.  I  hopeds 
anyhow,  Ed  Kinney  wouldn't " 

She  stopped  him  with  a  startled  look  in  her  great  eyes. 

"Don't  talk  about  him — it  ain't  right.  I  mean  it  don't  do  any 
good.  What  could  I  do,  after  father  died  ?  Mother  and  I.  Besides, 
I  waited  three  years  to  hear  from  you,  Will." 

He  gave  a  strange,  choking  cry.  It  burst  from  his  throat — that 
terrible  thing,  a  man's  sob  of  agony.  She  went  on,  curiously  calm 
now. 

"Ed  was  good  to  me;  and  he  offered  a  home,  anyway,  for 
mother " 

"And  all  the  time  I  was  waiting  for  some  line  to  break  down 
my  cussed  pride,  so  I  could  write  to  you  and  explain.  But  you  did 
go  with  Ed  to  the  fair,"  he  ended  suddenly,  seeking  a  morsel  of 
justification  for  himself. 

"Yes.  But  I  waited  an'  waited ;  and  I  thought  you  was  mad  at 
me,  so  when  they  came  I — no,  I  didn't  really  go  with  Ed.  There 
was  a  wagon-load  of  them." 

"But  I  started,"  he  explained,  "but  the  wheel  came  off.  I  didn't 
send  word  because  I  thought  you'd  feel  sure  I'd  come.  If  you'd  only 
trusted  me  a  little  more —  No!  It  was  all  my  fault.  I  acted  like 
a  crazy  fool.  I  didn't  stop  to  reason  about  anything." 


40  Main-Travelled  Roads 

They  sat  in  silence  after  these  explanations.  The  sound  of  the 
snapping  wings  of  the  grasshoppers  came  through  the  windows,  and 
a  locust  high  in  a  poplar  sent  down  his  ringing  whir. 

"It  can't  be  helped  now,  Will,"  Agnes  said  at  last,  her  voice  full 
of  the  woman's  resignation.  "We've  got  to  bear  it." 

Will  straightened  up.  "Bear  it?"  He  paused.  "Yes,  I  s'pose  so. 
If  you  hadn't  married  Ed  Kinney!  Anybody  but  him.  How  did 
you  do  it?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  she  answered,  wearily  brushing  her  hair 
back  from  her  eyes.  "It  seemed  best  when  I  did  it — and  it  can't  be 
helped  now."  There  was  infinite,  dull  despair  and  resignation  in 
her  voice. 

Will  went  over  to  the  window.  He  thought  how  bright  and 
handsome  Ed  used  to  be.  "After  all,  it's  no  wonder  you  married 
him.  Life  pushes  us  into  such  things."  Suddenly  he  turned,  some- 
thing resolute  and  imperious  in  his  eyes  and  voice. 

"It  can  be  helped,  Aggie,"  he  said.  "Now  just  listen  to  me. 
We've  made  an  awful  mistake.  We've  lost  seven  years  o'  life,  but 
that's  no  reason  why  we  should  waste  the  rest  of  it.  Now  hold  on ; 
don't  interrupt  me  just  yet.  I  come  back  thinking  just  as  much 
of  you  as  ever.  I'm  not  going  to  say  a  word  more  about  Ed;  let 
the  past  stay  past.  I'm  going  to  talk  about  the  future." 

She  looked  at  him  in  a  daze  of  wonder  as  he  went  on. 

"Now  I've  got  some  money,  I've  got  a  third  interest  in  a  ranch, 
and  I've  got  a  standing  offer  to  go  back  on  the  Santa  Fee  road  as 
conductor.  There  is  a  team  standing  out  there.  I'd  like  to  make 
another  trip  to  Cedarville — with  you " 

"Oh,  Will,  don't!"  she  cried;  "for  pity's  sake  don't  talk " 

"Wait!"  he  exclaimed,  imperiously.  "Now  look  at  it.  Here  you 
are  in  hell!  Caged  up  with  two  old  crows  picking  the  life  out  of 
you.  They'll  kill  you — I  can  see  it;  you're  being  killed  by  inches. 
You  can't  go  anywhere,  you  can't  have  anything.  Life  is  just  tor- 
ture for  you " 

She  gave  a  little  moan  of  anguish  and  despair,  and  turned  her 
face  to  her  chair-back.  Her  shoulders  shook  with  weeping,  but  she 
listened.  He  went  to  her  and  stood  with  his  hand  on  the  chair-back. 


A  Branch  Road  41 

His  voice  trembled  and  broke.  "There's  just  one  way  to  get  out 
of  this,  Agnes.  Come  with  me.  He  don't  care  for  you;  his  whole 
idea  of  women  is  that  they  are  created  for  his  pleasure  and  to  keep 
house.  Your  whole  life  is  agony.  Come !  Don't  cry.  There's  a  chance 
for  life  yet." 

She  didn't  speak,  but  her  sobs  were  less  violent ;  his  voice  grow- 
ing stronger  reassured  her. 

"I'm  going  East,  maybe  to  Europe;  and  the  woman  who  goes 
with  me  will  have  nothing  to  do  but  get  strong  and  well  again.  I've 
made  you  suffer  so,  I  ought  to  spend  the  rest  of  my  life  making 
you  happy.  Come !  My  wife  will  sit  with  me  on  the  deck  of  the 
steamer  and  see  the  moon  rise,  and  walk  with  me  by  the  sea,  till 
she  gets  strong  and  happy  again — till  the  dimples  get  back  into 
her  cheeks.  I  never  will  rest  till  I  see  her  eyes  laugh  again." 

She  rose  flushed,  wild-eyed,  breathing  hard  with  the  emotion  his 
vibrant  voice  called  up,  but  she  could  not  speak.  He  put  his  hand 
gently  upon  her  shoulder,  and  she  sank  down  again.  And  he  went 
on  with  his  appeal.  There  was  something  hypnotic,  dominating, 
in  his  voice  and  eyes. 

On  his  part  there  was  no  passion  of  an  ignoble  sort,  only  a 
passion  of  pity  and  remorse,  and  a  sweet,  tender,  reminiscent  love. 
He  did  not  love  the  woman  before  him  so  much  as  the  girl  whose 
ghost  she  was — the  woman  whose  promise  she  was.  He  held  him- 
self responsible  for  it  all,  and  he  throbbed  with  desire  to  repair  the 
ravage  he  had  indirectly  caused.  There  was  nothing  equivocal  in  his 
position — nothing  to  disown.  How  others  might  look  at  it,  he  did 
not  consider,  and  did  not  care.  His  impetuous  soul  was  carried  to 
a  point  where  nothing  came  in  to  mar  or  divert. 

"And  then  after  you're  well,  after  our  trip,  we'll  come  back — • 
to  Houston,  or  somewhere  in  Texas,  and  I'll  build  my  wife  a  house 
that  will  make  her  eyes  shine.  My  cattle  will  give  us  a  good  living, 
and  she  can  have  a  piano  and  books,  and  go  to  the  theatre  and  con- 
certs. Come,  what  do  you  think  of  that?" 

Then  she  heard  his  words  beneath  his  voice  somehow,  and  they 
produced  pictures  that  dazzled  her.  Luminous  shadows  moved  be- 


42  Main-Travelled  Roads 

fore  her  eyes,  drifting  across  the  gray  background  of  her  poor, 
starved,  work-weary  life. 

As  his  voice  ceased  the  rosy  cloud  faded,  and  she  realized  again 
the  faded,  musty  little  room,  the  calico-covered  furniture,  and 
looking  down  at  her  own  cheap  and  ill-fitting  dress,  she  saw  her 
ugly  hands  lying  there.  Then  she  cried  out  with  a  gush  of  tears: 

"Oh,  Will,  I'm  so  old  and  homely  now,  I  ain't  fit  to  go  with 
you  now !  Oh,  why  couldn't  we  have  married  then  ?" 

Sh*  was  seeing  herself  as  she  was  then,  and  so  was  he;  but  it 
deepened  his  resolution.  How  beautiful  she  used  to  be!  He  seemed 
to  see  her  there  as  if  she  stood  in  perpetual  sunlight,  with  a  warm 
sheen  in  her  hair  and  dimples  in  her  cheeks. 

She  saw  her  thin  red  wrists,  her  gaunt  and  knotted  hands.  There 
was  a  pitiful  droop  in  the  thin,  pale  lips,  and  the  tears  fell  slowly 
from  her  drooping  lashes.  He  went  on: 

"Well,  it's  no  use  to  cry  over  what  was.  We  must  think  of  what 
we're  going  to  do.  Don't  worry  about  your  looks;  you'll  be  the 
prettiest  woman  in  the  country  when  we  get  back.  Don't  wait, 
Aggie;  make  up  your  mind." 

She  hesitated,  and  was  lost. 

"What  will  people  say?" 

"I  don't  care  what  they  say,"  he  flamed  out.  "They'd  say,  stay 
here  and  be  killed  by  inches.  I  say  you've  had  your  share  of  suffer- 
ing. They'd  say — the  liberal  ones — stay  and  get  a  divorce ;  but  how 
do  you  know  we  can  get  one  after  you've  been  dragged  through 
the  mud  of  a  trial?  We  can  get  one  as  well  in  some  other  state. 
Why  should  you  be  worn  out  at  thirty?  What  right  or  justice  is 
there  in  making  you  bear  all  your  life  the  consequences  of  our — 
my  schoolboy  folly?" 

As  he  went  on  his  argument  rose  to  the  level  of  Browning's 
philosophy. 

"We  can  make  this  experience  count  for  us  yet.  But  we  mustn't 
let  a  mistake  ruin  us — it  should  teach  us.  What  right  has  any  one 
to  keep  you  in  a  hole?  God  don't  expect  a  toad  to  stay  in  a  stump 
and  starve  if  it  can  get  out.  He  don't  ask  the  snakes  to  suffer  as 
you  do." 


A  Branch  Road  43 

She  had  lost  the  threads  of  right  and  wrong  out  of  her  hands. 
She  was  lost  in  a  maze,  but  she  was  not  moved  by  passion.  Flesh  had 
ceased  to  stir  her ;  but  there  was  vast  power  in  the  new  and  thrill- 
ing words  her  deliverer  spoke.  He  seemed  to  open  a  door  for  her, 
and  through  it  turrets  shone  and  great  ships  crossed  on  dim  blue 
seas. 

"You  can't  live  here,  Aggie.  You'll  die  in  less  than  five  years.  It 
would  kill  me  to  see  you  die  here.  Come !  It's  suicide." 

She  did  not  move,  save  the  convulsive  motion  of  her  breath  and 
the  nervous  action  of  her  fingers.  She  stared  down  at  a  spot  in  the 
carpet.  She  could  not  face  him. 

He  grew  insistent,  a  sterner  note  creeping  into  his  voice. 

"If  I  leave  this  time  of  course  you  know  I'll  never  come  back." 

Her  hoarse  breathing,  growing  quicker  each  moment,  was  her 
only  reply. 

"I'm  done,"  he  said  with  a  note  of  angry  disappointment.  He 
did  not  give  her  up,  however.  "I've  told  you  what  I'd  do  for  you. 
Now,  if  you  think " 

"Oh,  give  me  time  to  think,  Will!"  she  cried  out,  lifting  her 
face. 

He  shook  his  head.  "No.  You  might  as  well  decide  now.  It  won't 
be  any  easier  to-morrow.  Come,  one  minute  more  and  I  go  out  o' 
that  door — unless — "  He  crossed  the  room  slowly,  doubtful  him- 
self of  his  desperate  last  measure.  "My  hand  is  on  the  knob.  Shall 
I  open  it?" 

She  stopped  breathing;  her  fingers  closed  convulsively  on  the 
chair.  As  he  opened  the  door  she  sprang  up. 

"Don't  go,  Will!  Don't  go,  please  don't!  I  need  you  here — 
I " 

"That  ain't  the  question.  Are  you  going  with  me,  Agnes?" 

"Yes,  yes!  I  tried  to  speak  before.  I  trust  you,  Will;  you're " 

He  flung  the  door  open  wide.  "See  the  sunlight  out  there  shining 
on  that  field  o'  wheat?  That's  where  I'll  take  you — out  into  the 
sunshine.  You  shall  see  it  shining  on  the  Bay  of  Naples.  Come,  get 
on  your  hat ;  don't  take  anything  more'n  you  actually  need.  Leave 
the  past  behind  you " 


44  Main-Travelled  Roads 

The  woman  turned  wildly  and  darted  into  the  little  bedroom. 
The  man  listened.  He  whistled  in  surprise  almost  comical.  He  had 
forgotten  the  baby.  He  could  hear  the  mother  talking,  cooing. 

"Mommie's  'ittle  pet!  She  wasn't  goin'  to  leave  her  'ittle  man — 
no,  she  wasn't!  There,  there,  don't  'e  cry.  Mommie  ain't  goin' 
away  and  leave  him — wicked  mommie  ain't — 'ittle  treasure !" 

She  was  confused  again;  and  when  she  reappeared  at  the  door, 
with  the  child  in  her  arms,  there  was  a  wandering  look  on  her 
face  pitiful  to  see.  She  tried  to  speak,  tried  to  say,  "Please  go, 
Will." 

He  designedly  failed  to  understand  her  whisper.  He  stepped 
forward.  "The  baby!  Sure  enough.  Why,  certainly!  to  the  mother 
belongs  the  child.  Blue  eyes,  thank  heaven !" 

He  put  his  arm  about  them  both.  She  obeyed  silently.  There  was 
something  irresistible  in  his  frank,  clear  eyes,  his  sunny  smile,  his 
strong  brown  hand.  He  slammed  the  door  behind  them. 

"That  closes  the  door  on  your  sufferings,"  he  said,  smiling  down 
at  her.  "Good-by  to  it  all." 

The  baby  laughed  and  stretched  out  its  hands  toward  the  light. 

"Boo,  boo!"  he  cried. 

"What's  he  talking  about?" 

She  smiled  in  perfect  trust  and  fearlessness,  seeing  her  child's 
face  beside  his  own.  "He  says  it's  beautiful." 

"Oh,  he  does!  I  can't  follow  his  French  accent." 

She  smiled  again,  in  spite  of  herself.  Will  shuddered  with  a  thrill 
of  fear,  she  was  so  weak  and  worn.  But  the  sun  shone  on  the 
dazzling,  rustling  wheat,  the  fathomless  sky,  blue  as  a  sea,  bent 
above  them — and  the  world  lay  before  them. 


UP  THE  COOLLY 

THE  ride  from  Milwaukee  to  the  Mississippi  is  a  fine  ride  at 
any  time,  superb  in  summer.  To  lean  back  in  a  reclining-chair  and 
whirl  away  in  a  breezy  July  day,  past  lakes,  groves  of  oak,  past 
fields  of  barley  being  reaped,  past  hay-fields,  where  the  heavy  grass 
is  toppling  before  the  swift  sickle,  is  a  panorama  of  delight,  a  road 
full  of  delicious  surprises,  where  down  a  sudden  vista  lakes  open, 
or  a  distant  wooded  hill  looms  darkly  blue,  or  swift  streams,  foam- 
ing deep  down  the  solid  rock,  send  whiffs  of  cool  breezes  in  at  the 
window. 

It  has  majesty,  breadth.  The  farming  has  nothing  apparently 
petty  about  it.  All  seems  vigorous,  youthful,  and  prosperous.  Mr. 
Howard  McLane  in  his  chair  let  his  newspaper  fall  on  his  lap,  and 
gazed  out  upon  it  with  dreaming  eyes.  It  had  a  certain  mysterious 
glamour  to  him ;  the  lakes  were  cooler  and  brighter  to  his  eye,  the 
greens  fresher,  and  the  grain  more  golden  than  to  any  one  else,  for 
he  was  coming  back  to  it  all  after  an  absence  of  ten  years.  It  was, 
besides,  his  West.  He  still  took  pride  in  being  a  Western  man. 

His  mind  all  day  flew  ahead  of  the  train  to  the  little  town,  far 
on  toward  the  Mississippi,  where  he  had  spent  his  boyhood  and 
youth.  As  the  train  passed  the  Wisconsin  River,  with  its  curiously 
carved  cliffs,  its  cold,  dark,  swift-swirling  water  eating  slowly 
under  cedar-clothed  banks,  Howard  began  to  feel  curious  little 
movements  of  the  heart,  like  those  of  a  lover  nearing  his  sweetheart. 

The  hills  changed  in  character,  growing  more  intimately  recog- 
nizable. They  rose  higher  as  the  train  left  the  ridge  and  passed 
down  into  the  Black  River  valley,  and  specifically  into  the  La 
Crosse  valley.  They  ceased  to  have  any  hint  of  upheavals  of  rock, 
and  became  simply  parts  of  the  ancient  level  left  standing  after  the 
water  had  practically  given  up  its  post-glacial  scooping  action. 

It  was  about  six  o'clock  as  he  caught  sight  of  the  splendid  broken 

45 


46  Main-Travelled  Roads 

line  of  hills  on  which  his  baby  eyes  had  looked  thirty-five  years  ago. 
A  few  minutes  later,  and  the  train  drew  up  at  the  grimy  little 
station  set  into  the  hillside,  and,  giving  him  just  time  to  leap  off, 
plunged  on  again  toward  the  West.  Howard  felt  a  ridiculous  weak- 
ness in  his  legs  as  he  stepped  out  upon  the  broiling-hot,  splintery 
planks  of  the  station  and  faced  the  few  idlers  lounging  about.  He 
simply  stood  and  gazed  with  the  same  intensity  and  absorption  one 
of  the  idlers  might  show  standing  before  the  Brooklyn  Bridge. 

The  town  caught  and  held  his  eyes  first.  How  poor  and  dull 
and  sleepy  and  squalid  it  seemed !  The  one  main  street  ended  at 
the  hillside  at  his  left,  and  stretched  away  to  the  north,  between 
two  rows  of  the  usual  village  stores,  unrelieved  by  a  tree  or  a 
touch  of  beauty.  An  unpaved  street,  with  walled,  drab-colored, 
miserable,  rotting  wooden  buildings,  with  the  inevitable  battle- 
ments; the  same — only  worse  and  more  squalid — was  the  town. 

The  same,  only  more  beautiful  still,  was  the  majestic  amphithea- 
ter of  green  wooded  hills  that  circled  the  horizon,  and  toward  which 
he  lifted  his  eyes.  He  thrilled  at  the  sight. 

"Glorious!"  he  cried  involuntarily. 

Accustomed  to  the  White  Mountains,  to  the  Alleghenies,  he  had 
wondered  if  these  hills  would  retain  their  old-time  charm.  They 
did.  He  took  off  his  hat  to  them  as  he  stood  there.  Richly  wooded, 
with  gently  sloping  green  sides,  rising  to  massive  square  or  rounded 
tops  with  dim  vistas,  they  glowed  down  upon  the  squat  little 
town,  gracious,  lofty  in  their  greeting,  immortal  in  their  vivid  and 
delicate  beauty. 

He  was  a  goodly  figure  of  a  man  as  he  stood  there  beside  his 
valise.  Portly,  erect,  handsomely  dressed,  and  with  something 
unusually  winning  in  his  brown  mustache  and  blue  eyes,  something 
scholarly  suggested  by  the  pinch-nose  glasses,  something  strong  in 
the  repose  of  the  head.  He  smiled  as  he  saw  how  unchanged  was 
the  grouping  of  the  old  loafers  on  the  salt-barrels  and  nail-kegs. 
He  recognized  most  of  them — a  little  dirtier,  a  little  more  bent, 
and  a  little  grayer. 

*  They  sat  in  the  same  attitudes,  spat  tobacco  with  the  same  calm 
delight,  and  joked  each  other,  breaking  into  short  and  sudden  fits 


Up  the  Coolly  47 

of  laughter,  and  pounded  each  other  on  the  back,  just  as  when  he 
was  a  student  at  the  La  Crosse  Seminary  and  going  to  and  fro 
daily  on  the  train. 

They  ruminated  on  him  as  he  passed,  speculating  in  a  perfectly 
audible  way  upon  his  business. 

"Looks  like  a  drummer." 

"No,  he  ain't  no  drummer.  See  them  Boston  glasses?" 

"That's  so.  Guess  he's  a  teacher." 

"Looks  like  a  moneyed  cuss." 

"Bos'n,  I  guess." 

He  knew  the  one  who  spoke  last — Freeme  Cole,  a  man  who  was 
the  fighting  wonder  of  Howard's  boyhood,  now  degenerated  into 
a  stoop-shouldered,  faded,  garrulous,  and  quarrelsome  old  man. 
Yet  there  was  something  epic  in  the  old  man's  stories,  something 
enthralling  in  the  dramatic  power  of  recital. 

Over  by  the  blacksmith  shop  the  usual  game  of  "quaits"  was  in 
progress,  and  the  drug-clerk  on  the  corner  was  chasing  a  crony  with 
the  squirt-pump  with  which  he  was  about  to  wash  the  windows. 
A  few  teams  stood  ankle-deep  in  the  mud,  tied  to  the  fantastically 
gnawed  pine  pillars  of  the  wooden  awnings.  A  man  on  a  load  of  hay 
was  "jawing"  with  the  attendant  of  the  platform  scales,  who  stood 
below,  pad  and  pencil  in  hand. 

"Hit  'im!  hit  'im!  Jump  off  and  knock  'im!"  suggested  a  by- 
stander, jovially. 

Howard  knew  the  voice. 

"Talk's  cheap.  Takes  money  to  buy  whiskey,"  he  said,  when 
the  man  on  the  load  repeated  his  threat  of  getting  off  and  whipping 
the  scales-man. 

"You're  William  McTurg,"  Howard  said,  coming  up  to  him. 

"I  am,  sir,"  replied  the  soft-voiced  giant,  turning  and  looking 
down  on  the  stranger,  with  an  amused  twinkle  in  his  deep  brown 
eyes.  He  stood  as  erect  as  an  Indian,  though  his  hair  and  beard  were 
white. 

"I'm  Howard  McLane." 

"Ye  begin  t'  look  it,"  said  McTurg,  removing  his  right  hand- 
from  his  pocket.  "How  are  ye?" 


48  Main-Travelled  Roads 

"I'm  first-rate.  How's  mother  and  Grant?" 

"Saw  'm  ploughing  corn  as  I  came  down.  Guess  he's  all  right. 
Want  a  boost?" 

"Well,  yes.  Are  you  down  with  a  team?" 

"Yep.  'Bout  goin'  home.  Climb  right  in.  That's  my  rig,  right 
there,"  nodding  at  a  sleek  bay  colt  hitched  in  a  covered  buggy. 
"Heave  y'r  grip  under  the  seat." 

They  climbed  into  the  seat  after  William  had  lowered  the 
buggy-top  and  unhitched  the  horse  from  the  post.  The  loafers  were 
mildly  curious.  Guessed  Bill  had  got  hooked  onto  by  a  lightnin'- 
rod  peddler,  or  somethin'  o'  that  kind. 

"Want  to  go  by  river,  or  'round  by  the  hills?" 

"Hills,  I  guess." 

The  whole  matter  began  to  seem  trivial,  as  if  he  had  been  away 
only  for  a  month  or  two. 

William  McTurg  was  a  man  little  given  to  talk.  Even  the  com- 
ing back  of  a  nephew  did  not  cause  any  flow  of  questions  or  remi- 
niscences. They  rode  in  silence.  He  sat  a  little  bent  forward,  the 
lines  held  carelessly  in  his  hands,  his  great  lion-like  head  swaying 
to  and  fro  with  the  movement  of  the  buggy. 

As  they  passed  familiar  spots,  the  younger  man  broke  the  silence 
with  a  question. 

"That's  old  man  McElvaine's  place,  ain't  it?" 

"Yep." 
v      "Old  man  living?" 

"I  guess  he  is.  Husk  more  corn'n  any  man  he  c'n  hire." 

In  the  edge  of  the  village  they  passed  an  open  lot  on  the  left, 
marked  with  circus-rings  of  different  eras. 

"There's  the  old  ball-ground.  Do  they  have  circuses  on  it  just  the 
same  as  ever?" 
J      "Just  the  same." 

"What  fun  that  field  calls  up!  The  games  of  ball  we  used  to 
have!  Do  you  play  yet?" 

"Sometimes.  Can't  stoop  as  well  as  I  used  to."  He  smiled  a  little. 
"Too  much  fat." 

It  all  swept  back  upon  Howard  in  a  flood  of  names  and  faces 


Up  the  Coolly  49 

and  sights  and  sounds;  something  sweet  and  stirring  somehow, 
though  it  had  little  of  aesthetic  charms  at  the  time.  They  were 
passing  along  lanes  now,  between  superb  fields  of  corn,  wherein 
ploughmen  were  at  work.  Kingbirds  flew  from  post  to  post  ahead 
of  them;  the  insects  called  from  the  grass.  The  valley  slowly  out- 
spread below  them.  The  workmen  in  the  fields  were  "turning  out" 
for  the  night.  They  all  had  a  word  of  chaff  with  McTurg. 

Over  the  western  wall  of  the  circling  amphitheatre  the  sun  was 
setting.  A  few  scattering  clouds  were  drifting  on  the  west  wind, 
their  shadows  sliding  down  the  green  and  purpled  slopes.  The 
dazzling  sunlight  flamed  along  the  luscious  velvety  grass,  and  shot 
amid  the  rounded,  distant  purple  peaks,  and  streamed  in  bars  of 
gold  and  crimson  across  the  blue  mist  of  the  narrower  upper 
Coollies. 

The  heart  of  the  young  man  swelled  with  pleasure  almost  like 
pain,  and  the  eyes  of  the  silent  older  man  took  on  a  far-off,  dream- 
ing look,  as  he  gazed  at  the  scene  which  had  repeated  itself  a 
thousand  times  in  his  life,  but  of  whose  beauty  he  never  spoke. 

Far  down  to  the  left  was  the  break  in  the  wall  through  which 
the  river  ran  on  its  way  to  join  the  Mississippi.  They  climbed 
slowly  among  the  hills,  and  the  valley  they  had  left  grew  still  more 
beautiful  as  the  squalor  of  the  little  town  was  hid  by  the  dusk  of 
distance.  Both  men  were  silent  for  a  long  time.  Howard  knew  the 
peculiarities  of  his  companion  too  well  to  make  any  remarks  or  ask 
any  questions,  and  besides  it  was  a  genuine  pleasure  to  ride  with 
one  who  understood  that  silence  was  the  only  speech  amid  such 
splendors. 

Once  they  passed  a  little  brook  singing  in  a  mournfully  sweet 
way  its  eternal  song  over  its  pebbles.  It  called  back  to  Howard  the 
days  when  he  and  Grant,  his  younger  brother,  had  fished  in  this 
little  brook  for  trout,  with  trousers  rolled  above  the  knee  and 
wrecks  of  hats  upon  their  heads. 

"Any  trout  left?"  he  asked. 

"Not  many.  Little  fellers."  Finding  the  silence  broken,  William 
asked  the  first  question  since  he  met  Howard.  "Le*  's  see :  you're  a 
show  feller  now?  B'long  to  a  troupe?" 


50  Main-Travelled  Roads 

"Yes,  yes;  I'm  an  actor." 

"Pay  much?" 

"Pretty  well." 

That  seemed  to  end  William's  curiosity  about  the  matter. 

"Ah,  there's  our  old  house,  ain't  it?"  Howard  broke  out,  point- 
ing to  one  of  the  houses  farther  up  the  Coolly.  "It'll  be  a  surprise 
to  them,  won't  it?" 

"Yep;  only  they  don't  live  there." 

"What!  They  don't!" 

"No." 

"Who  does?" 

"Dutchman." 

Howard  was  silent  for  some  moments.  "Who  lives  on  the  Dun- 
lap  place?" 

"  'Nother  Dutchman." 

"Where's  Grant  living,  anyhow?" 

"Farther  up  the  Coolly." 

"Well,  then,  I'd  better  get  out  here,  hadn't  I?" 

"Oh,  I'll  drive  ye  up." 

"No,  I'd  rather  walk." 

The  sun  had  set,  and  the  Coolly  was  getting  dusk  when  Howard 
got  out  of  McTurg's  carriage  and  set  off  up  the  winding  lane 
toward  his  brother's  house.  He  walked  slowly  to  absorb  the  cool- 
ness and  fragrance  and  color  of  the  hour.  The  katydids  sang  a 
rhythmic  song  of  welcome  to  him.  Fireflies  were  in  the  grass.  A 
whippoorwill  in  the  deep  of  the  wood  was  calling  weirdly,  and  an 
occasional  night-hawk,  flying  high,  gave  his  grating  shriek,  or 
hollow  boom,  suggestive  and  resounding. 

He  had  been  wonderfully  successful,  and  yet  had  carried  into  his 
success  as  a  dramatic  author  as  well  as  actor  a  certain  puritanism 
that  made  him  a  paradox  to  his  fellows.  He  was  one  of  those  actors 
who  are  always  in  luck,  and  the  best  of  it  was  he  kept  and  made  use 
of  his  luck.  Jovial  as  he  appeared,  he  was  inflexible  as  granite 
against  drink  and  tobacco.  He  retained  through  it  all  a  certain 
freshness  of  enjoyment  that  made  him  one  of  the  best  companions 
in  the  profession;  and  now,  as  he  walked  on,  the  hour  and  the 


Up  the  Coolly  51 

place  appealed  to  him  with  great  power.  It  seemed  to  sweep  away 
the  life  that  came  between. 

How  close  it  all  was  to  him,  after  all!  In  his  restless  life,  sur- 
rounded by  the  glare  of  electric  lights,  painted  canvas,  hot  colors, 
creak  of  machinery,  mock  trees,  stones,  and  brooks,  he  had  not 
lost,  but  gained,  appreciation  for  the  coolness,  quiet,  and  low  tones, 
the  shyness  of  the  wood  and  field. 

In  the  farmhouse  ahead  of  him  a  light  was  shining  as  he  peered 
ahead,  and  his  heart  gave  another  painful  movement.  His  brother 
was  awaiting  him  there,  and  his  mother,  whom  he  had  not  seen 
for  ten  years  and  who  had  lost  the  power  to  write.  And  when 
Grant  wrote,  which  had  been  more  and  more  seldom  of  late,  his 
letters  had  been  cold  and  curt. 

He  began  to  feel  that  in  the  pleasure  and  excitement  of  his  life 
he  had  grown  away  from  his  mother  and  brother.  Each  summer  he 
had  said,  "Well,  now,  I'll  go  home  this  year,  sure."  But  a  new 
play  to  be  produced,  or  a  new  yachting  trip,  or  a  tour  of  Europe, 
had  put  the  home-coming  off ;  and  now  it  was  with  a  distinct  con- 
sciousness of  neglect  of  duty  that  he  walked  up  to  the  fence  and 
looked  into  the  yard,  where  William  had  told  him  his  brother 
lived. 

It  was  humble  enough — a  small  white  story-and-a-half  struc- 
ture, with  a  wing  set  in  the  midst  of  a  few  locust-trees;  a  small 
drab-colored  barn  with  a  sagging  ridge-pole;  a  barnyard  full  of 
mud,  in  which  a  few  cows  were  standing,  fighting  the  flies  and 
waiting  to  be  milked.  An  old  man  was  pumping  water  at  the  well ; 
the  pigs  were  squealing  from  a  pen  near  by;  a  child  was  crying. 

Instantly  the  beautiful,  peaceful  valley  was  forgotten.  A  sick- 
ening chill  struck  into  Howard's  soul  as  he  looked  at  it  all.  In  the 
dim  light  he  could  see  a  figure  milking  a  cow.  Leaving  his  valise 
at  the  gate,  he  entered  and  walked  up  to  the  old  man,  who  had 
finished  pumping  and  was  about  to  go  to  feed  the  hogs. 

"Good-evening,"  Howard  began.  "Does  Mr.  Grant  McLane 
live  here?" 

"Yes,  sir,  he  does.  He's  right  over  there  milkinV 

"I'll  go  over  there  an " 


52  Main-Travelled  Roads 

"Don't  b'lieve  I  would.  It's  darn  muddy  over  there.  It's  been 
turrible  rainy.  He'll  be  done  in  a  minute,  anyway." 

"Very  well;  I'll  wait." 

As  he  waited,  he  could  hear  a  woman's  fretful  voice  and  the 
impatient  jerk  and  jar  of  kitchen  things,  indicative  of  ill-temper 
or  worry.  The  longer  he  stood  absorbing  this  farm-scene,  with  all 
its  sordidness,  dullness,  triviality,  and  its  endless  drudgeries,  the 
lower  his  heart  sank.  All  the  joy  of  the  home-coming  was  gone, 
when  the  figure  arose  from  the  cow  and  approached  the  gate,  and 
put  the  pail  of  milk  down  on  the  platform  by  the  pump. 

"Good-evening,"  said  Howard,  out  of  the  dusk. 

Grant  stared  a  moment.  "Good-evening." 

Howard  knew  the  voice,  though  it  was  older  and  deeper  and 
more  sullen.  "Don't  you  know  me,  Grant?  I  am  Howard." 

The  man  approached  him,  gazing  intently  at  his  face.  "You 
are?"  after  a  pause.  "Well,  I'm  glad  to  see  you,  but  I  can't  shake 
hands.  That  damned  cow  had  laid  down  in  the  mud." 

They  stood  and  looked  at  each  other.  Howard's  cuffs,  collar,  and 
shirt,  alien  in  their  elegance,  showed  through  the  dusk,  and  a 
glint  of  light  shot  out  from  the  jewel  of  his  necktie,  as  the  light 
from  the  house  caught  it  at  the  right  angle.  As  they  gazed  in  silence 
at  each  other,  Howard  divined  something  of  the  hard,  bitter  feel- 
ing that  came  into  Grant's  heart,  as  he  stood  there,  ragged,  ankle- 
deep  in  muck,  his  sleeves  rolled  up,  a  shapeless  old  straw  hat  on 
his  head. 

The  gleam  of  Howard's  white  hands  angered  him.  When  he 
spoke,  it  was  in  a  hard,  gruff  tone,  full  of  rebellion. 

"Well,  go  in  the  house  and  set  down.  I'll  be  in  soon's  I  strain 
the  milk  and  wash  the  dirt  off  my  hands." 

"But  mother " 

"She's  'round  somewhere.  Just  knock  on  the  door  under  the 
porch  round  there." 

Howard  went  slowly  around  the  corner  of  the  house,  past  a 
vilely  smelling  rain-barrel,  toward  the  west.  A  gray-haired  woman 
was  sitting  in  a  rocking-chair  on  the  porch,  her  hands  in  her  lap, 
her  eyes  fixed  on  the  faintly  yellow  sky,  against  which  the  hills 


Up  the  Coolly  53 

stood,  dim  purple  silhouettes,  and  on  which  the  locust  trees  were 
etched  as  fine  as  lace.  There  was  sorrow,  resignation,  and  a  sort  of 
dumb  despair  in  her  attitude. 

Howard  stood,  his  throat  swelling  till  it  seemed  as  if  he  would 
suffocate.  This  was  his  mother — the  woman  who  bore  him,  the 
being  who  had  taken  her  life  in  her  hand  for  him;  and  he,  in  his 
excited  and  pleasurable  life,  had  neglected  her! 

He  stepped  into  the  faint  light  before  her.  She  turned  and  looked 
at  him  without  fear.  "Mother!"  he  said.  She  uttered  one  little, 
breathing,  gasping  cry,  called  his  name,  rose,  and  stood  still.  He 
bounded  up  the  steps,  and  took  her  in  his  arms. 

"Mother!  Dear  old  mother!" 

In  the  silence,  almost  painful,  which  followed,  an  angry  woman's 
voice  could  be  heard  inside:  "I  don't  care!  I  ain't  goin'  to  wear 
myself  out  fer  him.  He  c'n  eat  out  here  with  us,  or  else " 

Mrs.  McLane  began  speaking.  "Oh,  I've  longed  to  see  yeh, 
Howard.  I  was  afraid  you  wouldn't  come  till — too  late." 

"What  do  you  mean,  mother?  Ain't  you  well?" 

"I  don't  seem  to  be  able  to  do  much  now  'cept  sit  around  and 
knit  a  little.  I  tried  to  pick  some  berries  the  other  day,  and  I  got 
so  dizzy  I  had  to  give  it  up." 

"You  mustn't  work.  You  needn't  work.  Why  didn't  you  write 
to  me  how  you  were?"  Howard  asked,  in  an  agony  of  remorse. 

"Well,  we  felt  as  if  you  probably  had  all  you  could  do  to  take 
care  of  yourself.  Are  you  married,  Howard  ?"  she  broke  off  to  ask. 

"No,  mother;  and  there  ain't  any  excuse  for  me — not  a  bit,"  he 
said,  dropping  back  into  her  colloquialisms.  "I'm  ashamed  when  I 
think  of  how  long  it's  been  since  I  saw  you.  I  could  have  come." 

"It  don't  matter  now,"  she  interrupted  gently.  "It's  the  way 
things  go.  Our  boys  grow  up  and  leave  us." 

"Well,  come  in  to  supper,"  said  Grant's  ungracious  voice  from 
the  doorway.  "Come,  mother." 

Mrs.  McLane  moved  with  difficulty.  Howard  sprang  to  her  aid, 
and,  leaning  on  his  arm,  she  went  through  the  little  sitting  room, 
which  was  unlighted,  out  into  the  kitchen,  where  the  supper  table 
stood  near  the  cook-stove. 


54  Main-Travelled  Roads 

"How. — this  is  my  wife,"  said  Grant,  in  a  cold,  peculiar  tone. 

Howard  bowed  toward  a  remarkably  handsome  young  woman, 
on  whose  forehead  was  a  scowl,  which  did  not  change  as  she  looked 
at  him  and  the  old  lady. 

"Set  down  anywhere,"  wa*  the  young  woman's  cordial  invita- 
tion. 

Howard  sat  down  next  his  mother,  and  facing  the  wife,  who 
had  a  small,  fretful  child  in  her  arms.  At  Howard's  left  was  the 
old  man,  Lewis.  The  supper  was  spread  upon  a  gay-colored  oil- 
cloth, and  consisted  of  a  pan  of  milk,  set  in  the  midst,  with  bowl& 
at  each  plate.  Beside  the  pan  was  a  dipper  and  a  large  plate  of 
bread,  and  at  one  end  of  the  table  was  a  dish  of  fine  honey. 

A  boy  of  about  fourteen  leaned  upon  the  table,  his  bent  shoulders 
making  him  look  like  an  old  man.  His  hickory  shirt,  like  Grant's, 
was  still  wet  with  sweat,  and  discolored  here  and  there  with  grease, 
or  green  from  grass.  His  hair,  freshly  wet  and  combed,  was 
smoothed  away  from  his  face,  and  shone  in  the  light  of  the  kero- 
sene lamp.  As  he  ate,  he  stared  at  Howard,  as  though  he  would 
make  an  inventory  of  each  thread  of  the  visitor's  clothing. 

"Did  I  look  like  that  at  his  age  ?"  thought  Howard. 

"You  see  we  live  just  about  the  same  as  ever,"  said  Grant,  as  they 
began  eating,  speaking  with  a  grim,  almost  challenging,  inflection. 

The  two  brothers  studied  each  other  curiously,  as  they  talked 
of  neighborhood  scenes.  Howard  seemed  incredibly  elegant  and 
handsome  to  them  all,  with  his  rich,  soft  clothing,  his  spotless  linen, 
and  his  exquisite  enunciation  and  ease  of  speech.  He  had  always 
been  "smooth-spoken,"  and  he  had  become  "elegantly  persuasive," 
as  his  friends  said  of  him,  and  it  was  a  large  factor  in  his  success. 

Every  detail  of  the  kitchen,  the  heat,  the  flies  buzzing  aloft,  the 
poor  furniture,  the  dress  of  the  people — all  smote  him  like  the  lash 
of  a  wire  whip.  His  brother  was  a  man  of  great  character.  He 
could  see  that  now.  His  deep-set,  gray  eyes  and  rugged  face  showed 
at  thirty  a  man  of  great  natural  ability.  He  had  more  of  the  Scotch 
in  his  face  than  Howard,  and  he  looked  much  older. 

He  was  dressed,  like  the  old  man  and  the  boy,  in  a  checked  shirt, 
without  vest.  His  suspenders,  once  gay-colored,  had  given  most  of 


Up  the  Coolly  55 

their  color  to  his  shirt,  and  had  marked  irregular  broad  bands  of 
pink  and  brown  and  green  over  his  shoulders.  His  hair  was  un- 
combed, merely  pushed  away  from  his  face.  He  wore  a  mustache 
only,  though  his  face  was  covered  with  a  week's  growth  of  beard. 
His  face  was  rather  gaunt,  and  was  brown  as  leather. 

Howard  could  not  eat  much.  He  was  disturbed  by  his  mother's 
strange  silence  and  oppression,  and  sickened  by  the  long-drawn 
gasps  with  which  the  old  man  ate  his  bread  and  milk,  and  by  the 
way  the  boy  ate.  He  had  his  knife  gripped  tightly  in  his  fist, 
knuckles  up,  and  was  scooping  honey  upon  his  bread. 

The  baby,  having  ceased  to  be  afraid,  was  curious,  gazing 
silently  at  the  stranger. 

"Hello,  little  one!  Come  and  see  your  uncle.  Eh?  Course  'e 
will,"  cooed  Howard,  in  the  attempt  to  escape  the  depressing 
atmosphere.  The  little  one  listened  to  his  inflections  as  a  kitten 
does,  and  at  last  lifted  its  arms  in  sign  of  surrender. 

The  mother's  face  cleared  up  a  little.  "I  declare,  she  wants  to 
go  to  you." 

"Course  she  does.  Dogs  and  kittens  always  come  to  me  when  I 
call  'em.  Why  shouldn't  my  own  niece  come?" 

He  took  the  little  one  and  began  walking  up  and  down  the 
kitchen  with  her,  while  she  pulled  at  his  beard  and  nose.  "I  ought 
to  have  you,  my  lady,  in  my  new  comedy.  You'd  bring  down  the 
house." 

"You  don't  mean  to  say  you  put  babies  on  the  stage,  Howard  ?" 
said  his  mother  in  surprise. 

"Oh,  yes.  Domestic  comedy  must  have  a  baby  these  days." 

"Well,  that's  another  way  of  makin'  a  livin',  sure,"  said  Grant. 
The  baby  had  cleared  the  atmosphere  a  little.  "I  s'pose  you  fellers 
make  a  pile  of  money." 

"Sometimes  we  make  a  thousand  a  week;  oftener  we  don't." 

"A  thousand  dollars!"  They  all  stared. 

"A  thousand  dollars  sometimes,  and  then  lose  it  all  the  next 
week  in  another  town.  The  dramatic  business  is  a  good  deal  like 
gambling — you  take  your  chances." 


$6  Main-Travelled  Roads 

"I  wish  you  weren't  in  it,  Howard.  I  don't  like  to  have  my 
son " 

"I  wish  I  was  in  somethin'  that  paid  better  than  farmin'.  Any- 
thing under  God's  heavens  is  better  'n  farmin',"  said  Grant. 

"No,  I  ain't  laid  up  much,"  Howard  went  on,  as  if  explaining 
why  he  hadn't  helped  them.  "Costs  me  a  good  deal  to  live,  and  I 
need  about  ten  thousand  dollars  leeway  to  work  on.  I've  made  a 
good  living,  but  I — I  ain't  made  any  money." 

Grant  looked  at  him,  darkly  meditative. 

Howard  went  on:  "How'd  ye  come  to  sell  the  old  farm?  I  was 
in  hopes " 

"How'd  we  come  to  sell  it?"  said  Grant  with  terrible  bitterness. 
"We  had  something  on  it  that  didn't  leave  anything  to  sell.  You 
probably  don't  remember  anything  about  it,  but  there  was  a  mort- 
gage on  it  that  eat  us  up  in  just  four  years  by  the  almanac.  'Most 
killed  mother  to  leave  it.  We  wrote  to  you  for  money,  but  I  don't 
suppose  you  remember  that" 

"No,  you  didn't." 

"Yes,  I  did." 

"When  was  it?  I  don't — why,  it's — I  never  received  it.  It  must 
have  been  that  summer  I  went  with  Bob  Manning  to  Europe." 
Howard  put  the  baby  down  and  faced  his  brother.  "Why,  Grant, 
you  didn't  think  I  refused  to  help?" 

"Well,  it  looked  that  way.  We  never  heard  a  word  from  yeh, 
all  summer,  and  when  y'  did  write,  it  was  all  about  yerself  'n  plays 
'n  things  we  didn't  know  anything  about.  I  swore  to  God  I'd  never 
write  to  you  again,  and  I  won't." 

"But,  good  heavens!  I  never  got  it." 

"Suppose  you  didn't.  You  might  have  known  we  were  poor  as 
Job's  off-ox.  Everybody  is  that  earns  a  living.  We  fellers  on  the 
farm  have  to  earn  a  livin'  for  ourselves  and  you  fellers  that  don't 
work.  I  don't  blame  you.  I'd  do  it  if  I  could." 

"Grant,  don't  talk  so !  Howard  didn't  realize " 

"I  tell  yeh  I  don't  blame  him !  Only  I  don't  want  him  to  come 
the  brotherly  business  over  me,  after  livin'  as  he  has — that's  all." 
There  was  a  bitter  accusation  in  the  man's  voice. 


Up  the  Coolly  57 

Howard  leaped  to  his  feet,  his  face  twitching. 

"By  God,  I'll  go  back  to-morrow  morning!"  he  threatened. 

"Go,  an'  be  damned !  I  don't  care  what  yeh  do,"  Grant  growled, 
rising  and  going  out. 

"Boys,"  called  the  mother,  piteously,  "it's  terrible  to  see  you 
quarrel." 

"But  I'm  not  to  blame,  mother,"  cried  Howard,  in  a  sickness 
that  made  him  white  as  chalk.  "The  man  is  a  savage.  I  came  home 
to  help  you  all,  not  to  quarrel." 

"Grant's  got  one  o'  his  fits  on,"  said  the  young  wife,  speaking 
for  the  first  time.  "Don't  pay  any  attention  to  him.  He'll  be  all 
right  in  the  morning." 

"If  it  wasn't  for  you,  mother,  I'd  leave  now,  and  never  see  that 
savage  again." 

He  lashed  himself  up  and  down  in  the  room,  in  horrible  disgust 
and  hate  of  his  brother  and  of  this  home  in  his  heart.  He  remem- 
bered his  tender  anticipations  of  the  home-coming  with  a  kind  of 
self-pity  and  disgust.  This  was  his  greeting! 

He  went  to  bed,  to  toss  about  on  the  hard,  straw-filled  mattress 
in  the  stuffy  little  best  room.  Tossing,  writhing  under  the  bludgeon- 
ing of  his  brother's  accusing  inflections,  a  dozen  times  he  said,  with 
a  half-articulate  snarl: 

"He  can  go  to  hell !  I'll  not  try  to  do  anything  more  for  him.  I 
don't  care  if  he  is  my  brother;  he  has  no  right  to  jump  on  me  like 
that.  On  the  night  of  my  return,  too.  My  God!  he  is  a  brute,  a 
fool!" 

He  thought  of  the  presents  in  his  trunk  and  valise,  which  he 
couldn't  show  to  him  that  night  after  what  had  been  said.  He  had 
intended  to  have  such  a  happy  evening  of  it,  such  a  tender  reunion ! 
It  was  to  be  so  bright  and  cheery! 

In  the  midst  of  his  cursings — his  hot  indignation — would  come 
visions  of  himself  in  his  own  modest  rooms.  He  seemed  to  be 
yawning  and  stretching  in  his  beautiful  bed,  the  sun  shining  in, 
his  books,  foils,  pictures,  around  him  to  say  good-morning  and 
tempt  him  to  rise,  while  the  squat  little  clock  on  the  mantel  struck 
eleven  warningly. 


58  Main-Travelled  Roads 

He  could  see  the  olive  walls,  the  unique  copper-and-crimson 
arabesque  frieze  (his  own  selection),  and  the  delicate  draperies;  an 
open  grate  full  of  glowing  coals,  to  temper  the  sea-winds;  and  in 
the  midst  of  it,  between  a  landscape  by  Enneking  and  an  Indian 
in  a  canoe  in  a  canon,  by  Brush,  he  saw  a  sombre  landscape  by  a 
master  greater  than  Millet,  a  melancholy  subject,  treated  with 
pitiless  fidelity. 

A  farm  in  the  valley!  Over  the  mountains  swept  jagged,  gray, 
angry,  sprawling  clouds,  sending  a  freezing,  thin  drizzle  of  rain, 
as  they  passed,  upon  a  man  following  a  plough.  The  horses  had  a 
sullen  and  weary  look,  and  their  manes  and  tails  streamed  sidewise 
in  the  blast.  The  ploughman,  clad  in  a  ragged  gray  coat,  with 
uncouth,  muddy  boots  upon  his  feet,  walked  with  his  head  inclined 
toward  the  sleet,  to  shield  his  face  from  the  cold  and  sting  of  it. 
The  soil  rolled  away  black  and  sticky  and  with  a  dull  sheen  upon 
it.  Near  by,  a  boy  with  tears  on  his  cheeks  was  watching  cattle ;  a 
dog  seated  near,  his  back  to  the  gale. 

As  he  looked  at  this  picture,  his  heart  softened.  He  looked  down 
at  the  sleeve  of  his  soft  and  fleecy  night-shirt,  at  his  white,  rounded 
arm,  muscular,  yet  fine  as  a  woman's,  and  when  he  looked  for  the 
picture  it  was  gone.  Then  came  again  the  assertive  odor  of  stag- 
nant air,  laden  with  camphor ;  he  felt  the  springless  bed  under  him, 
and  caught  dimly  a  few  soap-advertising  lithographs  on  the  walls. 
He  thought  of  his  brother,  in  his  still  more  inhospitable  bedroom, 
disturbed  by  the  child,  condemned  to  rise  at  five  o'clock  and  begin 
another  day's  pitiless  labor.  His  heart  shrank  and  quivered,  and 
the  tears  started  to  his  eyes. 

"I  forgive  him,  poor  fellow!  He's  not  to  blame." 

II 

He  woke,  however,  with  a  dull,  languid  pulse,  and  an  oppres- 
sive melancholy  on  his  heart.  He  looked  around  the  little  room, 
clean  enough,  but  oh,  how  poor !  how  barren !  Cold  plaster  walls, 
a  cheap  wash-stand,  a  wash-set  of  three  pieces,  with  a  blue  band 
around  each;  the  windows  rectangular,  and  fitted  with  fantastic 
green  shades. 


Up  the  Coolly  59 

Outside  he  could  hear  the  bees  humming.  Chickens  were  mer- 
rily moving  about.  Cow-bells  far  up  the  road  were  sounding  irreg- 
ularly. A  jay  came  by  and  yelled  an  insolent  reveille,  and  Howard 
sat  up.  He  could  hear  nothing  in  the  house  but  the  rattle  of  pans 
on  the  back  side  of  the  kitchen.  He  looked  at  his  watch,  which 
indicated  half -past  seven.  Grant  was  already  in  the  field,  after 
milking,  currying  the  horses,  and  eating  breakfast — had  been  at 
work  two  hours  and  a  half. 

He  dressed  himself  hurriedly,  in  a  neglige  shirt,  with  a  Windsor 
scarf,  light-colored,  serviceable  trousers  with  a  belt,  russet  shoes, 
and  a  tennis  hat — a  knockabout  costume,  he  considered.  His  mother, 
good  soul,  thought  it  a  special  suit  put  on  for  her  benefit,  and  ad- 
mired it  through  her  glasses. 

He  kissed  her  with  a  bright  smile,  nodded  at  Laura,  the  young 
wife,  and  tossed  the  baby,  all  in  a  breath,  and  with  the  manner,  as 
he  himself  saw,  of  the  returned  captain  in  the  war-dramas  of  the 
day. 

"Been  to  breakfast?"  He  frowned  reproachfully.  "Why  didn't 
you  call  me?  I  wanted  to  get  up,  just  as  I  used  to,  at  sunrise." 

"We  thought  you  was  tired,  and  so  we  didn't " 

"Tired !  Just  wait  till  you  see  me  help  Grant  pitch  hay  or  some- 
thing. Hasn't  finished  his  haying  yet,  has  he  ?" 

"No,  I  guess  not.  He  will  to-day  if  it  don't  rain  again." 

"Well,  breakfast  is  all  ready — Howard,"  said  Laura,  hesitat- 
ing a  little  on  his  name. 

"Good!  I  am  ready  for  it.  Bacon  and  eggs,  as  I'm  a  jay!  Just 
what  I  was  wanting.  I  was  saying  to  myself :  'Now  if  they'll  only 
get  bacon  and  eggs  and  hot  biscuits  and  honey — '  Oh,  say,  mother, 
I  heard  the  bees  humming  this  morning;  same  noise  they  used  to 
make  when  I  was  a  boy,  exactly.  Must  be  the  same  bees, — Hey, 
you  young  rascal!  come  here  and  have  some  breakfast  with  your 
uncle." 

"I  never  saw  her  take  to  any  one  so  quick,"  Laura  said,  empha- 
sizing the  baby's  sex.  She  had  on  a  clean  calico  dress  and  a  gingham 
apron,  and  she  looked  strong  and  fresh  and  handsome.  Her  head 
was  intellectual,  her  eyes  full  of  power.  She  seemed  anxious  to  re- 


60  Main-Travelled  Roads 

move  the  impression  of  her  unpleasant  looks  and  words  the  night 
before.  Indeed  it  would  have  been  hard  to  resist  Howard's  sunny 
good-nature. 

The  baby  laughed  and  crowed.  The  old  mother  could  not  take 
her  dim  eyes  off  the  face  of  her  son,  but  sat  smiling  at  him  as  he 
ate  and  rattled  on.  When  he  rose  from  the  table  at  last,  after 
eating  heartily  and  praising  it  all,  he  said,  with  a  smile : 

"Well,  now  I'll  just  telephone  down  to  the  express  and  have 
my  trunk  brought  up.  I've  got  a  few  little  things  in  there  you'll 
enjoy  seeing.  But  this  fellow,"  indicating  the  baby,  "I  didn't  take 
him  into  account.  But  never  mind:  Uncle  How.'ll  make  that  all 
right." 

"You  ain't  going  to  lay  it  up  agin  Grant,  be  you,  my  son?"  Mrs. 
McLane  faltered,  as  they  went  out  into  the  best  room. 

"Of  course  not!  He  didn't  mean  it.  Now,  can't  you  send  word 
down  and  have  my  trunk  brought  up?  Or  shall  I  have  to  walk 
down?" 

"I  guess  I'll  see  somebody  goin'  down,"  said  Laura. 

"All  right.  Now  for  the  hay-field,"  he  smiled,  and  went  out  into 
the  glorious  morning. 

The  circling  hills  were  the  same,  yet  not  the  same  as  at  night, 
a  cooler,  tenderer,  more  subdued  cloak  of  color  lay  upon  them. 
Far  down  the  valley  a  cool,  deep,  impalpable,  blue  mist  hung,  be- 
neath which  one  divined  the  river  ran,  under  its  elms  and  bass- 
woods  and  wild  grapevines.  On  the  shaven  slopes  of  the  hill  cattle 
and  sheep  were  feeding,  their  cries  and  bells  coming  to  the  ear 
with  a  sweet  suggestiveness.  There  was  something  immemorial  in 
the  sunny  slopes  dotted  with  red  and  brown  and  gray  cattle. 

Walking  toward  the  haymakers,  Howard  felt  a  twinge  of  pain 
and  distrust.  Would  Grant  ignore  it  all  and  smile 

He  stopped  short.  He  had  not  seen  Grant  smile  in  so  long — he 
couldn't  quite  see  him  smiling.  He  had  been  cold  and  bitter  for 
years.  When  he  came  up  to  them,  Grant  was  pitching  on ;  the  old 
man  was  loading,  and  the  boy  was  raking  after. 

"Good-morning,"  Howard  cried  cheerily;  the  old  man  nodded, 
the  boy  stared.  Grant  growled  something,  without  looking  up. 


Up  the  Coolly  61 

These  "finical"  things  of  saying  good-morning  and  good-night  are 
not  much  practised  in  such  homes  as  Grant  McLane's. 

"Need  some  help?  I'm  ready  to  take  a  hand.  Got  on  my  regi- 
mentals this  morning." 

Grant  looked  at  him  a  moment.  "You  look  it." 

Howard  smiled.  "Gimme  a  hold  on  that  fork,  and  I'll  show  you. 
I'm  not  so  soft  as  I  look,  now  you  bet." 

He  laid  hold  upon  the  fork  in  Grant's  hands,  who  released  it 
sullenly  and  stood  back  sneering.  Howard  stuck  the  fork  into  the 
pile  in  the  old  way,  threw  his  left  hand  to  the  end  of  the  polished 
handle,  brought  it  down  into  the  hollow  of  his  thigh,  and  laid  out 
his  strength  till  the  handle  bent  like  a  bow.  "Oop  she  rises!"  he 
called  laughingly,  as  the  huge  pile  began  slowly  to  rise,  and  finally 
rolled  upon  the  high  load. 

"Oh,  I  ain't  forgot  how  to  do  it,"  he  laughed,  as  he  looked 
around  at  the  boy,  who  was  eyeing  the  tennis  suit  with  a  devour- 
ing gaze. 

Grant  was  studying  him,  too,  but  not  in  admiration. 

"I  shouldn't  say  you  had,"  said  the  old  man,  tugging  at  the 
forkful. 

"Mighty  funny  to  come  out  here  and  do  a  little  of  this.  But  if 
you  had  to  come  here  and  do  it  all  the  while,  you  wouldn't  look  so 
white  and  soft  in  the  hands,"  Grant  said,  as  they  moved  on  to  an- 
other pile.  "Give  me  that  fork.  You'll  be  spoiling  your  fine  clothes." 

"Oh,  these  don't  matter.  They're  made  for  this  kind  of  thing." 

"Oh,  are  they?  I  guess  I'll  dress  in  that  kind  of  a  rig.  What  did 
that  shirt  cost?  I  need  one." 

"Six  dollars  a  pair;  but  then  it's  old." 

"And  them  pants,"  he  pursued ;  "they  cost  six  dollars,  too,  didn't 
they?" 

Howard's  face  darkened.  He  saw  his  brother's  purpose.  He  re- 
sented it.  "They  cost  fifteen  dollars,  if  you  want  to  know,  and  the 
shoes  cost  six-fifty.  This  ring  on  my  cravat  cost  sixty  dollars,  and 
the  suit  I  had  on  last  night  cost  eighty-five.  My  suits  are  made  by 
Breckstein,  on  Fifth  Avenue,  if  you  want  to  patronize  him,"  he 
ended  brutally,  spurred  on  by  the  sneer  in  his  brother's  eyes.  "I'll 
introduce  you." 


62  Main-Travelled  Roads 

"Good  idea,"  said  Grant,  with  a  forced,  mocking  smile. 

"I  need  just  such  a  get-up  for  haying  and  corn-ploughing.  Singu- 
lar I  never  thought  of  it.  Now  my  pants  cost  eighty-five  cents, 
s'spenders  fifteen,  hat  twenty,  shoes  one-fifty;  stockin's  I  don't 
bother  about." 

He  had  his  brother  at  a  disadvantage,  and  he  grew  fluent  and 
caustic  as  he  went  on,  almost  changing  places  with  Howard,  who 
took  the  rake  out  of  the  boy's  hand,  and  followed,  raking  up  the 
scatterings. 

"Singular  we  fellers  here  are  discontented  and  mulish,  ain't  it? 
Singular  we  don't  believe  your  letters  when  you  write,  sayin',  'I 
just  about  make  a  live  of  it'?  Singular  we  think  the  country's  goin' 
to  hell,  we  fellers,  in  a  two-dollar  suit,  wadin'  around  in  the  mud 
or  sweatin'  around  in  the  hay-field,  while  you  fellers  lay  around 
New  York  and  smoke  and  wear  good  clothes  and  toady  to  mil- 
lionaires ?" 

Howard  threw  down  the  rake  and  folded  his  arms.  "My  God! 
you're  enough  to  make  a  man  forget  the  same  mother  bore  us !" 

"I  guess  it  wouldn't  take  much  to  make  you  forget  that.  You 
ain't  put  much  thought  on  me  nor  her  for  ten  years." 

The  old  man  cackled,  the  boy  grinned,  and  Howard,  sick  and 
weak  with  anger  and  sorrow,  turned  away  and  walked  down  to- 
ward the  brook.  He  had  tried  once  more  to  get  near  his  brother, 
and  had  failed.  Oh,  God !  how  miserably,  pitiably !  The  hot  blood 
gushed  all  over  him  as  he  thought  of  the  shame  and  disgrace  of  it. 

He,  a  man  associating  with  poets,  artists,  sought  after  by  bril- 
liant women,  accustomed  to  deference  even  from  such  people,  to 
be  sneered  at,  outfaced,  shamed,  shoved  aside,  by  a  man  in  a  stained 
hickory  shirt  and  patched  overalls,  and  that  man  his  brother!  He 
lay  down  on  the  bright  grass,  with  the  sheep  all  around  him,  and 
writhed  and  groaned  with  the  agony  and  despair  of  it. 

And  worst  of  all,  underneath  it  was  a  consciousness  that  Grant 
was  right  in  distrusting  him.  He  had  neglected  him;  he  had  said, 
"I  guess  they're  getting  along  all  right."  He  had  put  them  behind 
him  when  the  invitation  to  spend  summer  on  the  Mediterranean 
or  in  the  Adirondacks,  came. 


Up  the  Coolly  63 

"What  can  I  do?  What  can  I  do?"  he  groaned. 

The  sheep  nibbled  the  grass  near  him,  the  jays  called  pertly, 
"Shame,  shame,"  a  quail  piped  somewhere  on  the  hillside,  and  the 
brook  sung  a  soft,  soothing  melody  that  took  away  at  last  the  sharp 
edge  of  his  pain,  and  he  sat  up  and  gazed  down  the  valley,  bright 
with  the  sun  and  apparently  filled  with  happy  and  prosperous 
people. 

Suddenly  a  thought  seized  him.  He  stood  up  so  suddenly  that 
the  sheep  fled  in  affright.  He  leaped  the  brook,  crossed  the  flat,  and 
began  searching  in  the  bushes  on  the  hillside.  "Hurrah!"  he  said, 
with  a  smile. 

He  had  found  an  old  road  which  he  used  to  travel  when  a  boy 
— a  road  that  skirted  the  edge  of  the  valley,  now  grown  up  to 
brush,  but  still  passable  for  footmen.  As  he  ran  lightly  along  down 
the  beautiful  path,  under  oaks  and  hickories,  past  masses  of  poison- 
ivy,  under  hanging  grapevines,  through  clumps  of  splendid  hazel- 
nut  bushes  loaded  with  great  sticky,  rough,  green  burs,  his  heart 
threw  off  part  of  its  load. 

How  it  all  came  back  to  him !  How  many  days,  when  the  autumn 
sun  burned  the  frost  of  the  bushes,  had  he  gathered  hazel-nuts  here 
with  his  boy  and  girl  friends — Hugh  and  Shelley  McTurg,  Rome 
Sawyer,  Orrin  Mcllvaine,  and  the  rest !  What  had  become  of  them 
all  ?  How  he  had  forgotten  them ! 

This  thought  stopped  him  again,  and  he  fell  into  a  deep  muse, 
leaning  against  an  oak  tree,  and  gazing  into  the  vast  fleckless  space 
above.  The  thrilling,  inscrutable  mystery  of  life  fell  upon  him  like 
a  blinding  light.  Why  was  he  living  in  the  crush  and  thunder  and 
mental  unrest  of  a  great  city,  while  his  companions,  seemingly  his 
equals  in  powers,  were  milking  cows,  making  butter,  and  growing 
corn  and  wheat  in  the  silence  and  drear  monotony  of  the  farm  ? 

His  boyish  sweethearts!  their  names  came  back  to  his  ear  now, 
with  a  dull,  sweet  sound  as  of  faint  bells.  He  saw  their  faces,  their 
pink  sunbonnets  tipped  back  upon  their  necks,  their  brown  ankles 
flying  with  the  swift  action  of  the  scurrying  partridge.  His  eyes 
softened,  he  took  off  his  hat.  The  sound  of  the  wind  and  the  leaves 
moved  him  almost  to  tears. 


64  Main-Travelled  Roads 

A  woodpecker  gave  a  shrill,  high-keyed,  sustained  cry  "Ki,  ki, 
ki!"  and  he  started  from  his  revery,  the  dapples  of  the  sun  and 
shade  falling  upon  his  lithe  figure  as  he  hurried  on  down  the  path. 

He  came  at  last  to  a  field  of  corn  that  ran  to  the  very  wall  of  a 
large  weather-beaten  house,  the  sight  of  which  made  his  breathing 
quicker.  It  was  the  place  where  he  was  born.  The  mystery  of  his 
life  began  there.  In  the  branches  of  those  poplar  and  hickory  trees 
he  had  swung  and  sung  in  the  rushing  breeze,  fearless  as  a  squirrel. 
Here  was  the  brook  where,  like  a  larger  kildee,  he  with  Grant  had 
waded  after  crawfish,  or  had  stolen  upon  some  wary  trout,  rough- 
cut  pole  in  hand. 

Seeing  someone  in  the  garden,  he  went  down  along  the  corn-row 
through  the  rustling  ranks  of  green  leaves.  An  old  woman  was 
picking  berries,  a  squat  and  shapeless  figure. 

"Good-morning,"  he  called  cheerily. 

"Morgen,"  she  said,  looking  up  at  him  with  a  startled  and  very 
red  face.  She  was  German  in  every  line  of  her  body. 

"Ich  bin  Herr  McLane,"  he  said,  after  a  pause. 

"So?"  she  replied,  with  a  questioning  inflection. 

"Yah;  ich  bin  Herr  Grant's  Bruder." 

"Ach,  so!"  she  said,  with  a  downward  inflection.  "Ich  no  spick 
Inglish.  No  spick  Inglis." 

"Ich  bin  durstig,"  he  said.  Leaving  her  pans,  she  went  with  him 
to  the  house,  which  was  what  he  really  wanted  to  see. 

"Ich  bin  hier  geboren." 

"Ach,  so!"  She  recognized  the  little  bit  of  sentiment,  and  said 
some  sentences  in  German  whose  general  meaning  was  sympathy. 
She  took  him  to  the  cool  cellar  where  the  spring  had  been  trained 
to  run  into  a  tank  containing  pans  of  cream  and  milk;  she  gave 
him  a  cool  draught  from  a  large  tin  cup,  and  at  his  request  went 
with  him  upstairs.  The  house  was  the  same,  but  somehow  seemed 
cold  and  empty.  It  was  clean  and  sweet,  but  it  showed  so  little  evi- 
dence of  being  lived  in.  The  old  part,  which  was  built  of  logs,  was 
used  as  best  room,  and  modelled  after  the  best  rooms  of  the  neigh- 
boring "Yankee"  homes,  only  it  was  emptier,  without  the  cabinet 
organ  and  the  rag-carpet  and  the  chromes. 


Up  the  Coolly  65 

The  old  fireplace  was  bricked  up  and  plastered — the  fireplace 
beside  which,  in  the  far-off  days,  he  had  lain  on  winter  nights,  to 
hear  his  uncles  tell  tales  of  hunting,  or  to  hear  them  play  the  violin, 
great  dreaming  giants  that  they  were. 

The  old  woman  went  out  and  left  him  sitting  there,  the  centre 
of  a  swarm  of  memories,  coming  and  going  like  so  many  ghostly 
birds  and  butterflies. 

A  curious  heartache  and  listlessness,  a  nerveless  mood  came  on\ 
him.  What  was  it  worth,  anyhow — success  ?  Struggle,  strife,  tram- 
pling on  some  one  else.  His  play  crowding  out  some  other  poor 
fellow's  hope.  The  hawk  eats  the  partridge,  the  partridge  eats  the 
flies  and  bugs,  the  bugs  eat  each  other  and  the  hawk,  when  he  in  his 
turn  is  shot  by  man.  So  in  the  world  of  business,  the  life  of  one 
man  seemed  to  him  to  be  drawn  from  the  life  of  another  man,  each 
success  to  spring  from  other  failures. 

He  was  like  a  man  from  whom  all  motives  had  been  withdrawn. 
He  was  sick,  sick  to  the  heart.  Oh,  to  be  a  boy  again !  An  ignorant 
baby,  pleased  with  a  block  and  string,  with  no  knowledge  and  no 
care  of  the  great  unknown !  To  lay  his  head  again  on  his  mother's 
bosom  and  rest !  To  watch  the  flames  on  the  hearth ! 

Why  not  ?  Was  not  that  the  very  thing  to  do  ?  To  buy  back  the 
old  farm?  It  would  cripple  him  a  little  for  the  next  season,  but  he 
could  do  it.  Think  of  it!  To  see  his  mother  back  in  the  old  home, 
with  the  fireplace  restored,  the  old  furniture  in  the  sitting  room 
around  her,  and  fine  new  things  in  the  parlor! 

His  spirits  rose  again.  Grant  couldn't  stand  out  when  he  brought 
to  him  a  deed  of  the  farm.  Surely  his  debt  would  be  cancelled  when 
he  had  seen  them  all  back  in  the  wide  old  kitchen.  He  began  to 
plan  and  to  dream.  He  went  to  the  windows,  and  looked  out  on 
the  yard  to  see  how  much  it  had  changed. 

He'd  build  a  new  barn  and  buy  them  a  new  carriage.  His  heart 
glowed  again,  and  his  lips  softened  into  their  usual  feminine  grace 
— lips  a  little  full  and  falling  easily  into  curves. 

The  old  German  woman  came  in  at  length,  bringing  some  cakes 
and  a  bowl  of  milk,  smiling  broadly  and  hospitably  as  she  waddled 
forward. 


66  Main-Travelled  Roads 

"Acht!  Goot!"  he  said,  smacking  his  lips  over  the  pleasant 
draught. 

"Wo  ist  ihre  goot  mann?"  he  inquired,  ready  for  business. 

Ill 

When  Grant  came  in  at  noon  Mrs.  McLane  met  him  at  the 
door  with  a  tender  smile  on  her  face. 

"Where's  Howard,  Grant?" 

"I  don't  know,"  he  replied,  in  a  tone  that  implied  "I  don't  care." 

The  dim  eyes  clouded  with  quick  tears. 

"Ain't  you  seen  him  ?" 

"Not  since  nine  o'clock." 

"Where  do  you  think  he  is?" 

"I  tell  yeh  I  don't  know.  He'll  take  care  of  himself;  don't 
worry." 

He  flung  off  his  hat  and  plunged  into  the  wash-basin.  His  shirt 
was  wet  with  sweat  and  covered  with  dust  of  the  hay  and  frag- 
ments of  leaves.  He  splashed  his  burning  face  with  the  water,  pay- 
ing no  further  attention  to  his  mother.  She  spoke  again,  very  gently, 
in  reproof: 

"Grant,  why  do  you  stand  out  against  Howard  so  ?" 

"I  don't  stand  out  against  him,"  he  replied  harshly,  pausing 
with  the  towel  in  his  hands.  His  eyes  were  hard  and  piercing.  "But 
if  he  expects  me  to  gush  over  his  coming  back,  he's  fooled,  that's 
all.  He's  left  us  to  paddle  our  own  canoe  all  this  while,  and,  so  far 
as  I'm  concerned,  he  can  leave  us  alone  hereafter.  He  looked  out 
for  his  precious  hide  mighty  well,  and  now  he  comes  back  here  to 
play  big  gun  and  pat  us  on  the  head.  I  don't  propose  to  let  him 
come  that  over  me." 

Mrs.  McLane  knew  too  well  the  temper  of  her  son  to  say  any 
more,  but  she  inquired  about  Howard  of  the  old  hired  man. 

"He  went  off  down  the  valley.  He  'n'  Grant  had  s'm  words,  and 
he  pulled  out  down  toward  the  olJ  farm.  That's  the  last  I  see 
of  W" 

T>"r?»  took  Howard's  part  at  the  table.  "Pity  you  cnn't  be  de- 


Up  the  Coolly  67 

cent,"  she  said,  brutally  direct  as  usual.  "You  treat  Howard  as  if 
he  was  a — a — I  do'  know  what." 

"Will  you  let  me  alone  ?" 

"No,  I  won't.  If  you  think  I'm  going  to  set  by  an'  agree  to  your 
bullyraggin'  him,  you're  mistaken.  It's  a  shame !  You're  mad  'cause 
he's  succeeded  and  you  hain't.  He  ain't  to  blame  for  his  brains.  If 
you  and  I'd  had  any,  we'd  'a'  succeeded  too.  It  ain't  our  fault,  and 
it  ain't  his;  so  what's  the  use?" 

A  look  came  into  Grant's  face  which  the  wife  knew  meant  bit- 
ter and  terrible  silence.  He  ate  his  dinner  without  another  word. 

It  was  beginning  to  cloud  up.  A  thin,  whitish,  all-pervasive  vapor 
which  meant  rain  was  dimming  the  sky,  and  Grant  forced  his 
hands  to  their  utmost  during  the  afternoon,  in  order  to  get  most 
of  the  down  hay  in  before  the  rain  came.  He  was  pitching  from  the 
load  into  the  barn  when  Howard  came  by,  just  before  one  o'clock. 

It  was  windless  there.  The  sun  fell  through  the  white  mist  with 
undiminished  fury,  and  the  fragrant  hay  sent  up  a  breath  that  was 
hot  as  an  oven-draught.  Grant  was  a  powerful  man,  and  there  was 
something  majestic  in  his  action  as  he  rolled  the  huge  flakes  of  hay 
through  the  door.  The  sweat  poured  from  his  face  like  rain,  and 
he  was  forced  to  draw  his  drenched  sleeve  across  his  face  to  clear 
away  the  blinding  sweat  that  poured  into  his  eyes. 

Howard  stood  and  looked  at  him  in  silence,  remembering  how 
often  he  had  worked  there  in  that  furnaceheat,  his  muscles  quiver- 
ing, cold  chills  running  over  his  flesh,  red  shadows  dancing  before 
his  eyes. 

His  mother  met  him  at  the  door,  anxiously,  but  smiled  as  she 
saw  his  pleasant  face  and  cheerful  eyes. 

"You're  a  little  late,  m'  son." 

Howard  spent  most  of  the  afternoon  sitting  with  his  mother  on 
the  porch,  or  under  the  trees,  lying  sprawled  out  like  a  boy,  resting 
at  times  with  sweet  forgetfulness  of  the  whole  world,  but  feeling 
a  dull  pain  whenever  he  remembered  the  stern,  silent  man  pitching 
hay  in  the  hot  sun  on  the  torrid  side  of  the  barn. 

His  mother  did  not  say  anything  about  the  quarrel;  she  feared 
to  reopen  it.  She  talked  mainly  of  old  times  in  a  gentle  monotone 
of  reminiscence,  while  he  listened,  looking  up  into  her  patient  face. 


68  Main-Travelled  Roads 

The  heat  slowly  lessened  as  the  sun  sank  down  toward  the  dun 
clouds  rising  like  a  more  distant  and  majestic  line  of  mountains 
beyond  the  western  hills.  The  sound  of  cow-bells  came  irregularly 
to  the  ear,  and  the  voices  and  sounds  of  the  haying-fields  had  a 
jocund,  pleasant  sound  to  the  ear  of  the  city-dweller. 

He  was  very  tender.  Everything  conspired  to  make  him  simple, 
direct,  and  honest. 

"Mother,  if  you'll  only  forgive  me  for  staying  away  so  long,  I'll 
surely  come  to  see  you  every  summer." 

She  had  nothing  to  forgive.  She  was  so  glad  to  have  him  there 
at  her  feet — her  great,  handsome,  successful  boy!  She  could  only 
love  him  and  enjoy  him  every  moment  of  the  precious  days.  If 
Grant  would  only  reconcile  himself  to  Howard!  That  was  the 
great  thorn  in  her  flesh. 

Howard  told  her  how  he  had  succeeded. 

"It  was  luck,  mother.  First  I  met  Cook,  and  he  introduced  me  to 
Jake  Saulsman  of  Chicago.  Jake  asked  me  to  go  to  New  York  with 
him,  and — I  don't  know  why — took  a  fancy  to  me  some  way.  He 
introduced  me  to  a  lot  of  the  fellows  in  New  York,  and  they  all 
helped  me  along.  I  did  nothing  to  merit  it.  Everybody  helps  me. 
Anybody  can  succeed  in  that  way." 

The  doting  mother  thought  it  not  at  all  strange  that  they  all 
helped  him. 

At  the  supper  table  Grant  was  gloomily  silent,  ignoring  How- 
ard completely.  Mrs.  McLane  sat  and  grieved  silently,  not  daring 
to  say  a  word  in  protest.  Laura  and  the  baby  tried  to  amuse  How- 
ard, and  under  cover  of  their  talk  the  meal  was  eaten. 

The  boy  fascinated  Howard.  He  "sawed  wood"  with  a  rapidity 
and  uninterruptedness  which  gave  alarm.  He  had  the  air  of  coaling 
up  for  a  long  voyage. 

"At  that  age,"  Howard  thought,  "I  must  have  gripped  my  knife 
in  my  right  hand  so,  and  poured  my  tea  into  my  saucer  so.  I  must 
have  buttered  and  bit  into  a  huge  slice  of  bread  just  so,  and  chewed 
at  it  with  a  smacking  sound  in  just  that  way.  I  must  have  gone  to 
the  length  of  scooping  up  honey  with  my  knife-blade." 

The  sky  was  magically  beautiful  over  all  this  squalor  and  toil 


Up  the  Coolly  69 

and  bitterness,  from  five  till  seven — a  moving  hour.  Again  the 
falling  sun  streamed  in  broad  banners  across  the  valleys ;  again  the 
blue  mist  lay  far  down  the  Coolly  over  the  river ;  the  cattle  called 
from  the  hills  in  the  moistening,  sonorous  air;  the  bells  came  in  a 
pleasant  tangle  of  sound ;  the  air  pulsed  with  the  deepening  chorus 
of  katydids  and  other  nocturnal  singers. 

Sweet  and  deep  as  the  very  springs  of  his  life  was  all  this  to  the 
soul  of  the  elder  brother ;  but  in  the  midst  of  it,  the  younger  man, 
in  ill-smelling  clothes  and  great  boots  that  chafed  his  feet,  went  out 
to  milk  the  cows, — on  whose  legs  the  flies  and  mosquitoes  swarmed, 
bloated  with  blood,  to — sit  by  the  hot  side  of  a  cow  and  be  lashed 
with  her  tail  as  she  tried  frantically  to  keep  the  savage  insects  from 
eating  her  raw. 

"The  poet  who  writes  of  milking  the  cows  does  it  from  the 
hammock,  looking  on,"  Howard  soliloquized,  as  he  watched  the  old 
man  Lewis  racing  around  the  filthy  yard  after  one  of  the  young 
heifers  that  had  kicked  over  the  pail  in  her  agony  with  the  flies,  and 
was  unwilling  to  stand  still  and  be  eaten  alive. 

"So,  50!  you  beast!"  roared  the  old  man,  as  he  finally  cornered 
the  shrinking,  nearly  frantic  creature. 

"Don't  you  want  to  look  at  the  garden?"  asked  Mrs.  McLane 
of  Howard ;  and  they  went  out  among  the  vegetables  and  berries. 

The  bees  were  coming  home  heavily  laden  and  crawling  slowly 
into  the  hives.  The  level,  red  light  streamed  through  the  trees, 
blazed  along  the  grass,  and  lighted  a  few  old-fashioned  flowers  into 
red  and  gold  flame.  It  was  beautiful,  and  Howard  looked  at  it 
through  his  half-shut  eyes  as  the  painters  do,  and  turned  away  with 
a  sigh  at  the  sound  of  blows  where  the  wet  and  grimy  men  were 
assailing  the  frantic  cows. 

"There's  Wesley  with  your  trunk,"  Mrs.  McLane  said,  recall- 
ing him  to  himself. 

Wesley  helped  him  carry  the  trunk  in,  and  waved  off  thanks. 

"Oh,  that's  all  right,"  he  said ;  and  Howard  knew  the  Western 
man  too  well  to  press  the  matter  of  pay. 

As  he  went  in  an  hour  later  and  stood  by  the  trunk,  the  dull 


70  Main-Travelled  Roads 

ache  came  back  to  his  heart.  How  he  had  failed !  It  seemed  like  a 
bitter  mockery  now  to  show  his  gifts. 

Grant  had  come  in  from  his  work,  and  with  his  feet  released 
from  his  chafing  boots,  in  his  wet  shirt  and  milk-splashed  overalls, 
sat  at  the  kitchen  table  reading  a  newspaper  which  he  held  close  to 
a  small  kerosene  lamp.  He  paid  no  attention  to  any  one.  His  atti- 
tude, curiously  like  his  father's,  was  perfectly  definite  to  Howard. 
It  meant  that  from  that  time  forward  there  were  to  be  no  words 
of  any  sort  between  them.  It  meant  that  they  were  no  longer 
brothers,  not  even  acquaintances.  "How  inexorable  that  face!" 
thought  Howard. 

He  turned  sick  with  disgust  and  despair,  and  would  have  closed 
his  trunk  without  showing  any  of  the  presents,  only  for  the  childish 
expectancy  of  his  mother  and  Laura. 

"Here's  something  for  you,  mother,"  he  said,  assuming  a  cheer- 
ful voice,  as  he  took  a  fold  of  fine  silk  from  the  trunk  and  held  it 
up.  "All  the  way  from  Paris."  He  laid  it  on  his  mother's  lap  and 
stooped  and  kissed  her,  and  then  turned  hastily  away  to  hide  the 
tears  that  came  to  his  own  eyes  as  he  saw  her  keen  pleasure. 

"And  here's  a  parasol  for  Laura.  I  don't  know  how  I  came  to 
have  that  in  here.  And  here's  General  Grant's  autobiography  for 
his  namesake,"  he  said,  with  an  effort  at  carelessness,  and  waited 
to  hear  Grant  rise. 

"Grant,  won't  you  come  in  ?"  asked  his  mother,  quaveringly. 

Grant  did  not  reply  nor  move.  Laura  took  the  handsome  vol- 
umes out  and  laid  them  beside  him  on  the  table.  He  simply  pushed 
them  one  side  and  went  on  with  his  reading. 

Again  that  horrible  anger  swept  hot  as  flame  over  Howard.  He 
could  have  cursed  him.  His  hands  shook  as  he  handed  out  other 
presents  to  his  mother  and  Laura  and  the  baby.  He  tried  to  joke. 

"I  didn't  know  how  old  the  baby  was,  so  she'll  have  to  grow  to 
some  of  these  things." 

But  the  pleasure  was  all  gone  for  him  and  for  the  rest.  His  heart 
swelled  almost  to  a  feeling  of  pain  as  he  looked  at  his  mother. 
There  she  sat  with  the  presents  in  her  lap.  The  shining  silk  came 
too  late  for  her.  It  threw  into  appalling  relief  her  age,  her  poverty, 


Up  the  Coolly  71 

her  work-weary  frame.  "My  God!"  he  almost  cried  aloud,  "how 
little  it  would  have  taken  to  lighten  her  life !" 

Upon  this  moment,  when  it  seemed  as  if  he  could  endure  no 
more,  came  the  smooth  voice  of  William  McTurg : 

"Hello,  folkses!" 

"Hello,  Uncle  Bill!  Come  in." 

"That's  what  we  came  for,"  laughed  a  woman's  voice. 

"Is  that  you,  Rose?"  asked  Laura. 

"It's  me — Rose,"  replied  the  laughing  girl,  as  she  bounced  into 
the  room  and  greeted  everybody  in  a  breathless  sort  of  way. 

"You  don't  mean  little  Rosy?" 

"Big  Rosy  now,"  said  William. 

Howard  looked  at  the  handsome  girl  and  smiled,  saying  in  a 
nasal  sort  of  tone,  "Wai,  wal!  Rosy,  how  you've  growed  since  I 
saw  yeh !" 

"Oh,  look  at  all  this  purple  and  fine  linen!  Am  I  left  out?" 

Rose  was  a  large  girl  of  twenty-five  or  thereabouts,  and  was 
called  an  old  maid.  She  radiated  good-nature  from  every  line  of 
her  buxom  self.  Her  black  eyes  were  full  of  drollery,  and  she  was 
on  the  best  of  terms  with  Howard  at  once.  She  had  been  a  teacher, 
but  that  did  not  prevent  her  from  assuming  a  homely  directness  of 
speech.  Of  course  they  talked  about  old  friends. 

"Where's  Rachel?"  Howard  inquired.  Her  smile  faded  away. 

"Shellie  married  Orrin  Mcllvaine.  They're  'way  out  in  Dakota. 
Shellie's  havin'  a  hard  row  of  stumps." 

There  was  a  little  silence. 

"And  Tommy?" 

"Gone  West.  Most  all  the  boys  have  gone  West.  That's  the 
reason  there's  so  many  old  maids." 

"You  don't  mean  to  say " 

"I  don't  need  to  say — I'm  an  old  maid.  Lots  of  the  girls  are.  It 
don't  pay  to  marry  these  days.  Are  you  married  ?" 

"Not  yet."  His  eyes  lighted  up  again  in  a  humorous  way. 

"Not  yet!  That's  good!  That's  the  way  old  maids  all  talk." 

"You  don't  mean  to  tell  me  that  no  young  fellow  comes  prowling 
around " 


72  Main-Travelled  Roads 

"Oh,  a  young  Dutchman  or  Norwegian  once  in  a  while.  Nobody 
that  counts.  Fact  is,  we're  getting  like  Boston — four  women  to  one 
man;  and  when  you  consider  that  we're  getting  more  particular 
each  year,  the  outlook  is — well,  it's  dreadful !" 

"It  certainly  is." 

"Marriage  is  a  failure  these  days  for  most  of  us.  We  can't  live 
on  a  farm,  and  can't  get  a  living  in  the  city,  and  there  we  are."  She 
laid  her  hand  on  his  arm.  "I  declare,  Howard,  you're  the  same 
boy  you  used  to  be.  I  ain't  a  bit  afraid  of  you,  for  all  your  success." 

"And  you're  the  same  girl?  No,  I  can't  say  that.  It  seems  to  me 
you've  grown  more  than  I  have — I  don't  mean  physically,  I  mean 
mentally,"  he  explained,  as  he  saw  her  smile  in  the  defensive  way 
a  fleshy  girl  has,  alert  to  ward  off  a  joke. 

They  were  in  the  midst  of  talk,  Howard  telling  one  of  his  funny 
stories,  when  a  wagon  clattered  up  to  the  door,  and  merry  voices 
called  loudly: 

"Whoa,  there,  Sampson!" 

"Hullo,  the  house!" 

Rose  looked  at  her  father  with  a  smile  in  her  black  eyes  exactly 
like  his.  They  went  to  the  door. 

"Hullo!  What's  wanted?" 

"Grant  McLane  live  here?" 

"Yup.  Right  here." 

A  moment  later  there  came  a  laughing,  chattering  squad  of 
women  to  the  door.  Mrs.  McLane  and  Laura  stared  at  each  other 
in  amazement.  Grant  went  outdoors. 

Rose  stood  at  the  door  as  if  she  were  hostess. 

"Come  in,  Nettie.  Glad  to  see  yeh — glad  to  see  yeh!  Mrs.  Mc- 
Ilvaine,  come  right  in!  Take  a  seat.  Make  yerself  to  home,  do\ 
And  Mrs.  Peavey!  Wai,  I  never!  This  must  be  a  surprise  party. 
Wai,  I  swan!  How  many  more  o'  ye  air  they?" 

All  was  confusion,  merriment,  hand-shakings  as  Rose  introduced 
them  in  her  roguish  way. 

"Folks,  this  is  Mr.  Howard  McLane  of  New  York.  He's  an 
actor,  but  it  hain't  spoiled  him  a  bit  as  /  can  see.  How.,  this  is  Net- 
tie Mcllvaine — Wilson  that  was." 


Up  the  Coolly  73 

Howard  shook  hands  with  Nettie,  a  tall,  plain  girl  with  prom- 
inent teeth. 

"This  is  Ma  Mcllvaine." 

"She  looks  just  the  same,"  said  Howard,  shaking  her  hand  and 
feeling  how  hard  and  work-worn  it  was. 

And  so  amid  bustle,  chatter,  and  invitations  "to  lay  off  y'r 
things  an'  stay  awhile,"  the  women  got  disposed  about  the  room  at 
last.  Those  that  had  rocking-chairs  rocked  vigorously  to  and  fro 
to  hide  their  embarrassment.  They  all  talked  in  loud  voices. 

Howard  felt  nervous  under  this  furtive  scrutiny.  He  wished 
that  his  clothes  didn't  look  so  confoundedly  dressy.  Why  didn't  he 
have  sense  enough  to  go  and  buy  a  fifteen-dollar  suit  of  diagonals 
for  everyday  wear. 

Rose  was  the  life  of  the  party.  Her  tongue  rattled  on  in  the 
most  delightful  way. 

"It's  all  Rose  and  Bill's  doin's,"  Mrs.  Mcllvaine  explained. 
"They  told  us  to  come  over  and  pick  up  anybody  we  see  on  the 
road.  So  we  did." 

Howard  winced  a  little  at  her  familiarity  of  tone.  He  couldn't 
help  it  for  the  life  of  him. 

"Well,  I  wanted  to  come  to-night  because  I'm  going  away  next 
week,  and  I  wanted  to  see  how  he'd  act  at  a  surprise-party  again," 
Rose  explained. 

"Married,  I  s'pose?"  said  Mrs.  Mcllvaine,  abruptly. 

"No,  not  yet." 

"Good  land!  Why,  y'  mus'  be  thirty-five,  How.  Must  'a*  dis'- 
p'inted  y'r  mam  not  to  have  a  young  'un  to  call  'er  granny." 

The  men  came  clumping  in,  talking  about  haying  and  horses. 
Some  of  the  older  ones  Howard  knew  and  greeted,  but  the  younger 
ones  were  mainly  too  much  changed.  They  were  all  very  ill  at 
ease.  Most  of  them  were  in  compromise  dress — something  lying 
between  working  "rig"  and  Sunday  dress.  Some  of  them  had  on 
clean  shirts  and  paper  collars,  and  wore  their  Sunday  coats  (thick 
woollen  garments)  over  rough  trousers.  Most  of  them  crossed 
their  legs  at  once,  and  all  of  them  sought  the  wall  and  leaned  back 
perilously  upon  the  hind  legs  of  their  chairs,  eyeing  Howard  slowly. 


74  Main-Travelled  Roads 

For  the  first  few  minutes  the  presents  were  the  subjects  of  con- 
versation. The  women  especially  spent  a  good  deal  of  talk  upon 
them. 

Howard  found  himself  forced  to  taking  the  initiative,  so  he  in- 
quired about  the  crops  and  about  the  farms. 

"I  see  you  don't  plough  the  hills  as  we  used  to.  And  reap!  What 
a  job  it  used  to  be.  It  makes  the  hills  more  beautiful  to  have  them 
covered  with  smooth  grass  and  cattle." 

There  was  only  dead  silence  to  this  touching  upon  the  idea  of 
beauty. 

"I  s'pose  it  pays  reasonably?" 

"Not  enough  to  kill,"  said  one  of  the  younger  men.  "You  c'n  see 
that  by  the  houses  we  live  in — that  is,  most  of  us.  A  few  that  came 
in  early  an'  got  land  cheap,  like  Mcllvaine,  here — he  got  a  lift  that 
the  rest  of  us  can't  get." 

"I'm  a  free-trader,  myself,"  said  one  young  fellow,  blushing 
and  looking  away  as  Howard  turned  and  said  cheerily: 

"So  'm  I." 

The  rest  seemed  to  feel  that  this  was  a  tabooed  subject — a  sub- 
ject to  be  talked  out  of  doors,  where  a  man  could  prance  about  and 
yell  and  do  justice  to  it. 

Grant  sat  silently  in  the  kitchen  doorway,  not  saying  a  word, 
not  looking  at  his  brother. 

"Well,  I  don't  never  use  hot  vinegar  for  mine,"  Mrs.  Mcllvaine 
was  heard  to  say.  "I  jest  use  hot  water,  and  I  rinse  'em  out  good, 
and  set  'em  bottom-side  up  in  the  sun.  I  do'  know  but  what  hot 
vinegar  would  be  more  cleansin'." 

Rose  had  the  younger  folks  in  a  giggle  with  a  droll  telling  of  a 
joke  on  herself. 

"How  d'  y'  stop  'em  from  laffin'  ?" 

"I  let  'em  laugh.  Oh,  my  school  is  a  disgrace — so  one  director 
says.  But  I  like  to  see  children  laugh.  It  broadens  their  cheeks." 

"Yes,  that's  all  hand-work."  Laura  was  showing  the  baby's  Sun- 
day clothes. 

"Goodness  Peter!  How  do  you  find  time  to  do  so  much?" 

"I  take  time." 

Howard,  being  the  lion  of  the  evening,  tried  his  best  to  be  agree- 


Up  the  Coolly  75 

able.  He  kept  near  his  mother,  because  it  afforded  her  so  much  pride 
and  satisfaction,  and  because  he  was  obliged  to  keep  away  from 
Grant,  who  had  begun  to  talk  to  the  men.  Howard  talked  mainly 
about  their  affairs,  but  still  was  forced  more  and  more  into  telling 
of  his  life  in  the  city.  As  he  told  of  the  theatre  and  the  concerts,  a 
sudden  change  fell  upon  them;  they  grew  sober,  and  he  felt  deep 
down  in  the  hearts  of  these  people  a  melancholy  which  was  ex- 
pressed only  illusively  with  little  tones  or  sighs.  Their  gayety  was 
fitful 

They  were  hungry  for  the  world,  for  life — these  young  people. 
Discontented,  and  yet  hardly  daring  to  acknowledge  it;  indeed, 
few  of  them  could  have  made  definite  statement  of  their  dissatis- 
faction. The  older  people  felt  it  less.  They  practically  said,  with  a 
sigh  of  pathetic  resignation: 

"Well,  I  don't  expect  ever  to  see  these  things  now." 

A  casual  observer  would  have  said,  "What  a  pleasant  bucolic — 
this  little  surprise-party  of  welcome!"  But  Howard,  with  his  native 
ear  and  eye,  had  no  such  pleasing  illusion.  He  knew  too  well  these 
suggestions  of  despair  and  bitterness.  He  knew  that,  like  the  smile 
of  the  slave,  this  cheerfulness  was  self-defence ;  deep  down  was  an- 
other unsatisfied  ego. 

Seeing  Grant  talking  with  a  group  of  men  over  by  the  kitchen 
door,  he  crossed  over  slowly  and  stood  listening.  Wesley  Cosgrove 
— a  tall,  raw-boned  young  fellow  with  a  grave,  almost  tragic  face 
— was  saying: 

"Of  course  I  ain't.  Who  is?  A  man  that's  satisfied  to  live  as  we 
do  is  a  fool." 

"The  worst  of  it  is,"  said  Grant,  without  seeing  Howard,  "a 
man  can't  get  out  of  it  during  his  lifetime,  and  I  don't  know  that 
he'll  have  any  chance  in  the  next — the  speculator  '11  be  there  ahead 
of  us." 

The  rest  laughed,  but  Grant  went  on  grimly: 

"Ten  years  ago  Wess,  here,  could  have  got  land  in  Dakota  pretty 
easy,  but  now  it's  about  all  a  feller's  life's  worth  to  try  it.  I  tell  you 
things  seem  shuttin'  down  on  us  fellers." 

"Plenty  o'  land  to  rent,"  suggested  some  one. 

"Yes,  in  terms  that  skin  a  man  alive.  More  than  that,  farmin' 


76  Main-Travelled  Roads 

ain't  so  free  a  life  as  it  used  to  be.  This  cattle-raisin5  and  butter- 
makin'  makes  a  nigger  of  a  man.  Binds  him  right  down  to  the 
grindstone  and  he  gets  nothin'  out  of  it — that's  what  rubs  it  in.  He 
simply  wallers  around  in  the  manure  for  somebody  else.  I'd  like 
to  know  what  a  man's  life  is  worth  who  lives  as  we  do?  How  much 
higher  is  it  than  the  lives  the  niggers  used  to  live  ?" 

These  brutally  bald  words  made  Howard  thrill  with  emotion 
like  the  reading  of  some  great  tragic  poem.  A  silence  fell  on  the 
group. 

"That's  the  God's  truth,  Grant,"  said  young  Cosgrove,  after  a 
pause. 

"A  man  like  me  is  helpless,"  Grant  was  saying.  "Just  like  a  fly 
in  a  pan  of  molasses.  There's  no  escape  for  him.  The  more  he  tears 
around  the  more  liable  he  is  to  rip  his  legs  off." 

"What  can  he  do?" 

"Nothin'." 

The  men  listened  in  silence. 

"Oh,  come,  don't  talk  politics  all  night!"  cried  Rose,  breaking 
in.  "Come,  let's  have  a  dance.  Where's  that  fiddle?" 

"Fiddle!"  cried  Howard,  glad  of  a  chance  to  laugh.  "Well,  now! 
Bring  out  that  fiddle.  Is  it  William's?" 

"'Yes,  pap's  old  fiddle." 

"O  Gosh!  he  don't  want  to  hear  me  play,"  protested  William. 
"He's  heard  s'  many  fiddlers." 

"Fiddlers!  I've  heard  a  thousand  violinists,  but  not  fiddlers. 
Come,  give  us  'Honest  John.'  >: 

William  took  the  fiddle  in  his  work-calloused  and  crooked  hands 
and  began  tuning  it.  The  group  at  the  kitchen  door  turned  to 
listen,  their  faces  lighting  up  a  little.  Rose  tried  to  get  a  "set"  on 
the  floor. 

"Oh,  good  land!"  said  some.  "We're  all  tuckered  out.  What 
makes  you  so  anxious  ?" 

"She  wants  a  chance  to  dance  with  the  New  Yorker." 

"That's  it,  exactly,"  Rose  admitted. 

"Wai,  if  you'd  churned  and  mopped  and  cooked  for  hayin'  hands 
»s  I  have  to-day,  you  wouldn't  be  so  full  o'  nonsense." 


Up  the  Coolly  77 

"Oh,  bother!  Life's  short.  Come,  quick,  get  Bettie  out.  Come, 
Wess,  never  mind  your  hobby-horse." 

By  incredible  exertion  she  got  a  set  on  the  floor,  and  William 
got  the  fiddle  in  tune.  Howard  looked  across  at  Wesley,  and 
thought  the  change  in  him  splendidly  dramatic.  His  face  was  lighted 
with  a  timid,  deprecating,  boyish  smile.  Rose  could  do  anything 
with  him. 

William  played  some  of  the  old  tunes  that  had  a  thousand  asso- 
ciated memories  in  Howard's  brain,  memories  of  harvest-moons,  of 
melon-feasts,  and  of  clear,  cold  winter  nights.  As  he  danced,  his 
eyes  filled  with  a  tender  light.  He  came  closer  to  them  all  than  he 
had  been  able  to  do  before.  Grant  had  gone  out  into  the  kitchen. 

After  two  or  three  sets  had  been  danced,  the  company  took  seats 
and  could  not  be  stirred  again.  So  Laura  and  Rose  disappeared  for 
a  few  moments,  and  returning,  served  strawberries  and  cream, 
which  Laura  said  she  "just  happened  to  have  in  the  house." 

And  then  William  played  again.  His  fingers,  now  grown  more 
supple,  brought  out  clearer,  firmer  tones.  As  he  played,  silence  fell 
on  these  people.  The  magic  of  music  sobered  every  face ;  the  women 
looked  older  and  more  careworn,  the  men  slouched  sullenly  in  their 
chairs,  or  leaned  back  against  the  wall. 

It  seemed  to  Howard  as  if  the  spirit  of  tragedy  had  entered  this 
house.  Music  had  always  been  William's  unconscious  expression  of 
his  unsatisfied  desires.  He  was  never  melancholy  except  when  he 
played.  Then  his  eyes  grew  sombre,  his  drooping  face  full  of 
shadows. 

He  played  on  slowly,  softly,  wailing  Scotch  tunes  and  mournful 
Irish  love  songs.  He  seemed  to  find  in  these  melodies,  and  espe- 
cially in  a  wild,  sweet,  low-keyed  negro  song,  some  expression  for 
his  indefinable  inner  melancholy. 

He  played  on,  forgetful  of  everybody,  his  long  beard  sweeping 
the  violin,  his  toil-worn  hands  marvellously  obedient  to  his  will. 

At  last  he  stopped,  looked  up  with  a  faint,  apologetic  smile,  and 
«aid  with  a  sigh : 

"Well,  folkses,  time  to  go  home." 


78  Main-Travelled  Roads 

The  going  was  quiet.  Not  much  laughing.  Howard  stood  at  the 
door  and  said  good-night  to  them  all,  his  heart  very  tender. 

"Come  and  see  us,"  they  said. 

"I  will,"  he  replied  cordially.  "I'll  try  and  get  around  to  see 
everybody,  and  talk  over  old  times,  before  I  go  back." 

After  the  wagons  had  driven  out  of  the  yard,  Howard  turned 
and  put  his  arm  about  his  mother's  neck. 

"Tired?" 

"A  little." 

"Well,  now  good  night.  I'm  going  for  a  little  stroll." 

His  brain  was  too  active  to  sleep.  He  kissed  his  mother  good- 
night, and  went  out  into  the  road,  his  hat  in  his  hand,  the  cool 
moist  wind  on  his  hair. 

It  was  very  dark,  the  stars  being  partly  hidden  by  a  thin  vapor. 
On  each  side  the  hills  rose,  every  line  familiar  as  the  face  of  an  old 
friend.  A  whippoorwill  called  occasionally  from  the  hillside,  and 
the  spasmodic  jangle  of  a  bell  now  and  then  told  of  some  cow's 
battle  with  the  mosquitoes. 

As  he  walked,  he  pondered  upon  the  tragedy  he  had  rediscov- 
ered in  these  people's  lives.  Out  here  under  the  inexorable  spaces  of 
the  sky,  a  deep  distaste  of  his  own  life  took  possession  of  him.  He 
felt  like  giving  it  all  up.  He  thought  of  the  infinite  tragedy  of 
these  lives  which  the  world  loves  to  call  peaceful  and  pastoral.  His 
mind  went  out  in  the  aim  to  help  them.  What  could  he  do  to  make 
life  better  worth  living  ?  Nothing. 

They  must  live  and  die  practically  as  he  saw  them  to-night. 

And  yet  he  knew  this  was  a  mood,  and  that  in  a  few  hours  the 
love  and  the  habit  of  life  would  come  back  upon  him  and  upon 
them;  that  he  would  go  back  to  the  city  in  a  few  days;  that  these 
people  would  live  on  and  make  the  best  of  it. 

"/'//  make  the  best  of  it,"  he  said  at  last,  and  his  thought  came 
back  to  his  mother  and  Grant. 

IV 

The  next  day  was  a  rainy  day;  not  a  shower,  but  a  steady  rain 
— an  unusual  thing  in  midsummer  in  the  West.  A  cold,  dismal  day 


Up  the  Coolly  79 

in  the  tireless,  colorless  farmhouses.  It  came  to  Howard  in  that 
peculiar  reaction  which  surely  comes  during  a  visit  of  this  character, 
when  thought  is  a  weariness,  when  the  visitor  longs  for  his  own 
familiar  walls  and  pictures  and  books,  and  longs  to  meet  his  friends, 
feeling  at  the  same  time  the  tragedy  of  life  which  makes  friends 
nearer  and  more  congenial  than  blood-relations. 

Howard  ate  his  breakfast  alone,  save  Baby  and  Laura  its  mother 
going  about  the  room.  Baby  and  mother  alike  insisted  on  feeding 
him  to  death.  Already  dyspeptic  pangs  were  setting  in. 

"Now  ain't  there  something  more  I  can " 

"Good  heavens!  No!"  he  cried  in  dismay.  "I'm  likely  to  die  of 
dyspepsia  now.  This  honey  and  milk,  and  these  delicious  hot  bis- 
cuits   " 

"I'm  afraid  it  ain't  much  like  the  breakfasts  you  have  in  the  city." 

"Well,  no,  it  ain't,"  he  confessed.  "But  this  is  the  kind  a  man 
needs  when  he  lives  in  the  open  air." 

She  sat  down  opposite  him,  with  her  elbows  on  the  table,  her 
chin  in  her  palm,  her  eyes  full  of  shadows. 

"I'd  like  to  go  to  a  city  once.  I  never  saw  a  town  bigger'n  La 
Crosse.  I've  never  seen  a  play,  but  I've  read  of  'em  in  the  maga- 
zines. It  must  be  wonderful ;  they  say  they  have  wharves  and  real 
ships  coming  up  to  the  wharf,  and  people  getting  off  and  on.  How 
do  they  do  it?" 

"Oh,  that's  too  long  a  story  to  tell.  It's  a  lot  of  machinery  and 
paint  and  canvas.  If  I  told  you  how  it  was  done,  you  wouldn't 
enjoy  it  so  well  when  you  come  on  and  see  it." 

"Do  you  ever  expect  to  see  me  in  New  York?" 

"Why,  yes.  Why  not?  I  expect  Grant  to  come  on  and  bring  you 
all  some  day,  especially  Tonikins  here.  Tonikins,  you  hear,  sir? 
I  expect  you  to  come  on  you'  forf  birfday,  sure."  He  tried  thus  to 
stop  the  woman's  gloomy  confidence. 

"I  hate  farm-life,"  she  went  on  with  a  bitter  inflection.  "It's 
nothing  but  fret,  fret,  and  work  the  whole  time,  never  going  any 
place,  never  seeing  anybody  but  a  lot  of  neighbors  just  as  big  fools 
as  you  are.  I  spend  my  time  righting  flies  and  washing  dishes  and 
churning.  I'm  sick  of  it  all." 


8o  Main-Travelled  Roads 

Howard  was  silent.  What  could  he  say  to  such  an  indictment? 
The  ceiling  swarmed  with  flies  which  the  cold  rain  had  driven  to 
seek  the  warmth  of  the  kitchen.  The  gray  rain  was  falling  with  a 
dreary  sound  outside,  and  down  the  kitchen  stove-pipe  an  occa- 
sional drop  fell  on  the  stove  with  a  hissing,  angry  sound. 

The  young  wife  went  on  with  a  deeper  note : 

"I  lived  in  La  Crosse  two  years,  going  to  school,  and  I  know  a 
little  something  of  what  city  life  is.  If  I  was  a  man,  I  bet  I 
wouldn't  wear  my  life  out  on  a  farm,  as  Grant  does.  I'd  get  away 
and  I'd  do  something.  I  wouldn't  care  what,  but  I'd  get  away." 

There  was  a  certain  volcanic  energy  back  of  all  the  woman  said, 
that  made  Howard  feel  she  would  make  the  attempt.  She  did  not 
know  that  the  struggle  for  a  place  to  stand  on  this  planet  was  eat- 
ing the  heart  and  soul  out  of  men  and  women  in  the  city,  just  as  in 
the  country.  But  he  could  say  nothing.  If  he  had  said  in  conven- 
tional phrase,  sitting  there  in  his  soft  clothing,  "We  must  make  the 
best  of  it  all,"  the  woman  could  justly  have  thrown  the  dish-cloth 
in  his  face.  He  could  say  nothing. 

"I  was  a  fool  for  ever  marrying,"  she  went  on,  while  the  baby 
pushed  a  chair  across  the  room.  "I  made  a  decent  living  teaching,  I 
was  free  to  come  and  go,  my  money  was  my  own.  Now  I'm  tied 
right  down  to  a  churn  or  a  dish-pan,  I  never  have  a  cent  of  my  own. 
Hes  growlin'  'round  half  the  time,  and  there's  no  chance  of  his 
ever  being  different." 

She  stopped  with  a  bitter  sob  in  her  throat.  She  forgot  she  was 
talking  to  her  husband's  brother.  She  was  conscious  only  of  his 
sympathy. 

As  if  a  great  black  cloud  had  settled  down  upon  him,  Howard 
felt  it  all — the  horror,  hopelessness,  imminent  tragedy  of  it  all. 
The  glory  of  nature,  the  bounty  and  splendor  of  the  sky,  only  made 
it  the  more  benumbing.  He  thought  of  a  sentence  Millet  once 
wrote : 

"I  see  very  well  the  aureole  of  the  dandelions,  and  the  sun  also, 
far  down  there  behind  the  hills,  flinging  his  glory  upon  the  clouds. 
But  not  alone  that — I  see  in  the  plains  the  smoke  of  the  tired  horses 
at  the  plough,  or,  on  a  stony-hearted  spot  of  ground,  a  back-broken 


Up  the  Coolly  81 

man  trying  to  raise  himself  upright  for  a  moment  to  breathe.  The 
tragedy  is  surrounded  by  glories — that  is  no  invention  of  mine." 

Howard  arose  abruptly  and  went  back  to  his  little  bedroom, 
where  he  walked  up  and  down  the  floor  till  he  was  calm  enough  to 
write,  and  then  he  sat  down  and  poured  it  all  out  to  "Dearest 
Margaret,"  and  his  first  sentence  was  this: 

"If  it  were  not  for  you  (just  to  let  you  know  the  mood  I'm  in) 
— if  it  were  not  for  you,  and  I  had  the  world  in  my  hands,  I'd  crush 
it  like  a  puff-ball ;  evil  so  predominates,  suffering  is  so  universal  and 
persistent,  happiness  so  fleeting  and  so  infrequent." 

He  wrote  on  for  two  hours,  and  by  the  time  he  had  sealed  and 
directed  several  letters  he  felt  calmer,  but  still  terribly  depressed. 
The  rain  was  still  falling,  sweeping  down  from  the  half-seen  hills, 
wreathing  the  wooded  peaks  with  a  gray  garment  of  mist,  and 
filling  the  valley  with  a  whitish  cloud. 

It  fell  around  the  house  drearily.  It  ran  down  into  the  tubs 
placed  to  catch  it,  dripped  from  the  mossy  pump,  and  drummed 
on  the  upturned  milk-pails,  and  upon  the  brown  and  yellow  bee- 
hives under  the  maple  trees.  The  chickens  seemed  depressed,  but 
the  irrepressible  bluejay  screamed  amid  it  all,  with  the  same  in- 
solent spirit,  his  plumage  untarnished  by  the  wet.  The  barnyard 
showed  a  horrible  mixture  of  mud  and  mire,  through  which  How- 
ard caught  glimpses  of  the  men,  slumping  to  and  fro  without  more 
additional  protection  than  a  ragged  coat  and  a  shapeless  felt  hat. 

In  the  sitting  room  where  his  mother  sat  sewing  there  was  not  an 
ornament,  save  the  etching  he  had  brought.  The  clock  stood  on  a 
small  shelf,  its  dial  so  much  defaced  that  one  could  not  tell  the 
time  of  day ;  and  when  it  struck,  it  was  with  noticeably  dispropor- 
tionate deliberation,  as  if  it  wished  to  correct  any  mistake  into 
which  the  family  might  have  fallen  by  reason  of  its  illegible 
dial. 

The  paper  on  the  walls  showed  the  first  concession  of  the  Puri- 
tans to  the  Spirit  of  Beauty,  and  was  made  up  of  a  heterogeneous 
mixture  of  flowers  of  unheard-of-shapes  and  colors,  arranged  in 
four  different  ways  along  the  wall.  There  were  no  books,  no  music, 
and  only  a  few  newspapers  in  sight — a  bare,  blank,  cold,  drab- 


82  Main-Travelled  Roads 

colored  shelter  from  the  rain,  not  a  home.  Nothing  cosy,  nothing 
heart-warming;  a  grim  and  horrible  shed. 

"What  are  they  doing?  It  can't  be  they're  at  work  such  a  day  as 
this,"  Howard  said,  standing  at  the  window. 

"They  find  plenty  to  do,  even  on  rainy  days,"  answered  his 
mother.  "Grant  always  has  some  job  to  set  the  men  at.  It's  the  only 
way  to  live." 

"I'll  go  out  and  see  them."  He  turned  suddenly.  "Mother,  why 
should  Grant  treat  me  so?  Have  I  deserved  it?" 

Mrs.  McLane  sighed  in  pathetic  hopelessness.  "I  don't  know, 
Howard.  I'm  worried  about  Grant.  He  gets  more  an'  more  down- 
hearted an'  gloomy  every  day.  Seems  if  he'd  go  crazy.  He  don't 
care  how  he  looks  any  more,  won't  dress  up  on  Sunday.  Days  an' 
days  he'll  go  aroun'  not  sayin'  a  word.  I  was  in  hopes  you  could 
help  him,  Howard." 

"My  coming  seems  to  have  had  an  opposite  effect.  He  hasn't 
spoken  a  word  to  me,  except  when  he  had  to,  since  I  came.  Mother, 
what  do  you  say  to  going  home  with  me  to  New  York?" 

"Oh,  I  couldn't  do  that!"  she  cried  in  terror.  "I  couldn't  live 
in  a  big  city — never!" 

"There  speaks  the  truly  rural  mind,"  smiled  Howard  at  his 
mother,  who  was  looking  up  at  him  through  her  glasses  with  a 
pathetic  forlornness  which  sobered  him  again.  "Why,  mother,  you 
could  live  in  Orange,  New  Jersey,  or  out  in  Connecticut,  and  be 
just  as  lonesome  as  you  are  here.  You  wouldn't  need  to  live  in  the 
city.  I  could  see  you  then  every  day  or  two." 

"Well,  I  couldn't  leave  Grant  an'  the  baby,  anyway,"  she  re- 
plied, not  realizing  how  one  could  live  in  New  Jersey  and  do  busi- 
ness daily  in  New  York. 

"Well,  then,  how  would  you  like  to  go  back  into  the  old  house?" 

The  patient  hands  fell  to  the  lap,  the  dim  eyes  fixed  in  searching 
glance  on  his  face.  There  was  a  wistful  cry  in  the  voice. 

"Oh,  Howard !  Do  you  mean " 

He  came  and  sat  down  by  her,  and  put  his  arm  about  her  and 
hugged  her  hard.  "I  mean,  you  dear,  good,  patient,  work-weary 
old  mother,  I'm  going  to  buy  back  the  old  farm  and  put  you  in  it." 


Up  the  Coolly  83 

There  was  no  refuge  for  her  now  except  in  tears,  and  she  put  up 
her  thin,  trembling  old  hands  about  his  neck,  and  cried  in  that  easy, 
placid,  restful  way  age  has. 

Howard  could  not  speak.  His  throat  ached  with  remorse  and 
pity.  He  saw  his  forgetfulness  of  them  all  once  more  without  re- 
lief,— the  black  thing  it  was ! 

"There,  there,  mother,  don't  cry!"  he  said,  torn  with  anguish 
by  her  tears.  Measured  by  man's  tearlessness,  her  weeping  seemed 
terrible  to  him.  "I  didn't  realize  how  things  were  going  here.  It 
was  all  my  fault — or,  at  least,  most  of  it.  Grant's  letter  didn't  reach 
me.  I  thought  you  were  still  on  the  old  farm.  But  no  matter;  it's 
all  over  now.  Come,  don't  cry  any  more,  mother  dear.  I'm  going  to 
take  care  of  you  now." 

It  had  been  years  since  the  poor,  lonely  woman  had  felt  such 
warmth  of  love.  Her  sons  had  been  like  her  husband,  chary  of  ex- 
pressing their  affection;  and  like  most  Puritan  families,  there  was 
little  of  caressing  among  them.  Sitting  there  with  the  rain  on  the 
roof  and  driving  through  the  trees,  they  planned  getting  back  into 
the  old  house.  Howard's  plan  seemed  to  her  full  of  splendor  and 
audacity.  She  began  to  understand  his  power  and  wealth  now,  as  he 
put  it  into  concrete  form  before  her. 

"I  wish  I  cuuld  eat  Thanksgiving  dinner  there  with  you,"  he 
said  at  last,  "but  it  can't  be  thought  of.  However,  I'll  have  you  all 
in  there  before  I  go  home.  I'm  going  out  now  and  tell  Grant.  Now 
don't  worry  any  more ;  I'm  going  to  fix  it  all  up  with  him,  sure." 
He  gave  her  a  parting  hug. 

Laura  advised  him  not  to  attempt  to  get  to  the  barn;  but  as  he 
persisted  in  going,  she  hunted  up  an  old  rubber  coat  for  him. 
"You'll  mire  down  and  spoil  your  shoes,"  she  said,  glancing  at  his 
neat  calf  gaiters. 

"Darn  the  difference!"  he  laughed  in  his  old  way.  "Besides,  I've 
got  rubbers." 

"Better  go  round  by  the  fence,"  she  advised,  as  he  stepped  out 
into  the  pouring  rain. 

How  wretchedly  familiar  it  all  was!  The  miry  cowyard,  with 
the  hollow  trampled  out  around  the  horse-trough,  the  disconsolate 


84  Main-Travelled  Roads 

hens  standing  under  the  wagons  and  sheds,  a  pig  wallowing  across 
its  sty,  and  for  atmosphere  the  desolate,  falling  rain.  It  was  so 
familiar  he  felt  a  pang  of  the  old  rebellious  despair  which  seized 
him  on  such  days  in  his  boyhood. 

Catching  up  courage,  he  stepped  out  on  the  grass,  opened  the 
gate  and  entered  the  barn-yard.  A  narrow  ribbon  of  turf  ran 
around  the  fence,  on  which  he  could  walk  by  clinging  with  one 
hand  to  the  rough  boards.  In  this  way  he  slowly  made  his  way 
around  the  periphery,  and  came  at  last  to  the  open  barn-door  with- 
out much  harm. 

It  was  a  desolate  interior.  In  the  open  floor-way  Grant,  seated 
upon  a  half-bushel,  was  mending  a  harness.  The  old  man  was  hold- 
ing the  trace  in  his  hard  brown  hands ;  the  boy  was  lying  on  a  wisp 
of  hay.  It  was  a  small  barn,  and  poor  at  that.  There  was  a  bad 
smell,  as  of  dead  rats,  about  it,  and  the  rain  fell  through  the  shin- 
gles here  and  there.  To  the  right,  and  below,  the  horses  stood, 
looking  up  with  their  calm  and  beautiful  eyes,  in  which  the  whole 
scene  was  idealized. 

Grant  looked  up  an  instant,  and  then  went  on  with  his  work. 

"Did  yeh  wade  through?"  grinned  Lewis,  exposing  his  broken 
teeth. 

"No,  I  kinder  circumambiated  the  pond."  He  sat  down  on  the 
little  tool-box  near  Grant.  "Your  barn  is  a  good  deal  like  that  in 
'The  Arkansaw  Traveller.'  Needs  a  new  roof,  Grant."  His  voice 
had  a  pleasant  sound,  full  of  the  tenderness  of  the  scene  through 
which  he  had  just  been.  "In  fact,  you  need  a  new  barn." 

"I  need  a  good  many  things,  more'n  I'll  ever  get,"  Grant  replied 
shortly. 

"How  long  did  you  say  you'd  been  on  this  farm?" 

"Three  years  this  fall." 

"I  don't  s'pose  you've  been  able  to  think  of  buying — Now  hold 
on,  Grant,"  he  cried,  as  Grant  threw  his  head  back.  "For  God's 
sake,  don't  get  mad  again !  Wait  till  you  see  what  I'm  driving  at." 

"I  don't  see  what  you're  drivin'  at,  and  I  don't  care.  All  I  want 
you  to  do  is  to  let  us  alone.  That  ought  to  be  easy  enough  for  you." 

"I  tell  you,  I  didn't  get  your  letter.  I  didn't  know  you'd  lost  the 


Up  the  Coolly  85 

old  farm."  Howard  was  determined  not  to  quarrel.  "I  didn't  sup- 


pose  

"You  might  'a'  come  to  see." 

"Well,  I'll  admit  that.  All  I  can  say  in  excuse  is  that  since  I  got 
to  managing  plays  I've  kept  looking  ahead  to  making  a  big  hit  and 
getting  a  barrel  of  money — just  as  the  old  miners  used  to  hope  and 
watch.  Besides,  you  don't  understand  how  much  pressure  there  is 
on  me.  A  hundred  different  people  pulling  and  hauling  to  have  me 
go  here  or  go  there,  or  do  this  or  do  that.  When  it  isn't  yachting, 
it's  canoeing,  or " 

He  stopped.  His  heart  gave  a  painful  throb,  and  a  shiver  ran 
through  him.  Again  he  saw  his  life,  so  rich,  so  bright,  so  free,  set 
over  against  the  routine  life  in  the  little  low  kitchen,  the  barren 
sitting  room,  and  this  still  more  horrible  barn.  Why  should  his 
brother  sit  there  in  wet  and  grimy  clothing,  mending  a  broken 
trace,  while  he  enjoyed  all  the  light  and  civilization  of  the  age? 

He  looked  at  Grant's  fine  figure,  his  great,  strong  face ;  recalled 
his  deep,  stern,  masterful  voice.  "Am  I  so  much  superior  to  him? 
Have  not  circumstances  made  me  and  destroyed  him?" 

"Grant,  for  God's  sake,  don't  sit  there  like  that!  I'll  admit  I've 
been  negligent  and  careless.  I  can't  understand  it  all  myself.  But 
let  me  do  something  for  you  now.  I've  sent  to  New  York  for  five 
thousand  dollars.  I've  got  terms  on  the  old  farm.  Let  me  see  you 
all  back  there  once  more  before  I  return." 

"I  don't  want  any  of  your  charity." 

"It  ain't  charity.  It's  only  justice  to  you."  He  rose.  "Come,  now, 
let's  get  at  an  understanding,  Grant.  I  can't  go  on  this  way.  I 
can't  go  back  to  New  York  and  leave  you  here  like  this." 

Grant  rose  too.  "I  tell  you,  I  don't  ask  your  help.  You  can't  fix 
this  thing  up  with  money.  If  you've  got  more  brains'n  I  have,  why, 
it's  all  right.  I  ain't  got  any  right  to  take  anything  that  I  don't 
earn." 

"But  you  don't  get  what  you  do  earn.  It  ain't  your  fault.  I  begin 
to  see  it  now.  Being  the  oldest,  I  had  the  best  chance.  I  was  going 
to  town  to  school  while  you  were  ploughing  and  husking  corn.  Of 
course  I  thought  you'd  be  going  soon  yourself.  I  had  three  years 


86  Main-Travelled  Roads 

the  start  of  you.  If  you'd  been  in  my  place,  you  might  have  met  a 
man  like  Cook,  you  might  have  gone  to  New  York  and  have  been 
where  I  am." 

"Well,  it  can't  be  helped  now.  So  drop  it." 

"But  it  must  be  helped!"  Howard  said,  pacing  about,  his  hands 
in  his  coat-pockets.  Grant  had  stopped  work,  and  was  gloomily 
looking  out  of  the  door  at  a  pig  nosing  in  the  mud  for  stray  grains 
of  wheat  at  the  granary  door.  The  old  man  and  the  boy  quietly 
withdrew. 

"Good  God !  I  see  it  all  now,"  Howard  burst  out  in  an  im- 
passioned tone.  "I  went  ahead  with  my  education,  got  my  start  in 
life,  then  father  died,  and  you  took  up  his  burdens.  Circumstances 
made  me  and  crushed  you.  That's  all  there  is  about  that.  Luck 
made  me  and  cheated  you.  It  ain't  right." 

His  voice  faltered.  Both  men  were  now  oblivious  of  their  com- 
panions and  of  the  scene.  Both  were  thinking  of  the  days  when 
they  both  planned  great  things  in  the  way  of  education,  two  am- 
bitious, dreamful  boys. 

"I  used  to  think  of  you,  Grant,  when  I  pulled  out  Monday 
morning  in  my  best  suit — cost  fifteen  dollars  in  those  days."  He 
smiled  a  little  at  the  recollection.  "While  you  in  overalls  and  an 
old  'wammus'  were  going  out  into  the  field  to  plough,  or  husk  corn 
in  the  mud.  It  made  me  feel  uneasy,  but,  as  I  said,  I  kept  saying 
to  myself,  'His  turn'll  come  in  a  year  or  two.'  But  it  didn't." 

His  voice  choked.  He  walked  to  the  door,  stood  ?  moment,  came 
back.  His  eyes  were  full  of  tears. 

"I  tell  you,  old  man,  many  a  time  in  my  boarding-house  down 
to  the  city,  when  I  thought  of  the  jolly  times  I  was  having,  my 
heart  hurt  me.  But  I  said,  'It's  no  use  to  cry.  Better  go  on  and  do 
the  best  you  can,  and  then  help  them  afterward.  There'll  only  be 
one  more  miserable  member  of  the  family  if  you  stay  at  home.' 
Besides,  it  seemed  right  to  me  to  have  first  chance.  But  I  never 
thought  you'd  be  shut  off,  Grant.  If  I  had,  I  never  would  have 
gone  on.  Come,  old  man,  I  want  you  to  believe  that."  His  voice 
was  very  tender  now  and  almost  humble. 

"I  don't  know  as  I  blame  you  for  that,  How.,"  said  Grant, 


Up  the  Coolly  87 

slowly.  It  was  the  first  time  he  had  called  Howard  by  his  boyish 
nickname.  His  voice  was  softer,  too,  and  higher  in  key.  But  he 
looked  steadily  away. 

"I  went  to  New  York.  People  liked  my  work.  I  was  very  success- 
ful, Grant;  more  successful  than  you  realize.  I  could  have  helped 
you  at  any  time.  There's  no  use  lying  about  it.  And  I  ought  to  have 
done  it;  but  some  way — it's  no  excuse,  I  don't  mean  it  for  an 
excuse,  only  an  explanation — some  way  I  got  in  with  the  boys.  I 
don't  mean  I  was  a  drinker  and  all  that.  But  I  bought  pictures 
and  kept  a  horse  and  a  yacht,  and  of  course  I  had  to  pay  my  share 
of  all  expeditions,  and — oh,  what's  the  use!" 

He  broke  off,  turned,  and  threw  his  open  palms  out  toward  his 
brother,  as  if  throwing  aside  the  last  attempt  at  an  excuse. 

"I  did  neglect  you,  and  it's  a  damned  shame!  and  I  ask  your 
forgiveness.  Come,  old  man!" 

He  held  out  his  hand,  and  Grant  slowly  approached  and  took 
it.  There  was  a  little  silence.  Then  Howard  went  on,  his  voice 
trembling,  the  tears  on  his  face. 

"I  want  you  to  let  me  help  you,  old  man.  That's  the  way  to  for- 
give me.  Will  you?" 

"Yes,  if  you  can  help  me." 

Howard  squeezed  his  hand.  "That's  all  right,  old  man.  Now 
you  make  me  a  boy  again.  Course  I  can  help  you.  I've  got  ten " 

"I  don't  mean  that,  How."  Grant's  voice  was  very  grave. 
"Money  can't  give  me  a  chance  now." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"I  mean  life  ain't  worth  very  much  to  me.  I'm  too  old  to  take  a 
new  start.  I'm  a  dead  failure.  I've  come  to  the  conclusion  that  life's 
a  failure  for  ninety-nine  per  cent  of  us.  You  can't  help  me  now.  It's 
too  late!" 

The  two  men  stood  there,  face  to  face,  hands  clasped,  the  one 
fair-skinned,  full-lipped,  handsome  in  his  neat  suit ;  the  other  tragic, 
sombre  in  his  softened  mood,  his  large,  long,  rugged  Scotch  face 
bronzed  with  sun  and  scarred  with  wrinkles  that  had  histories,  like 
sabre-cuts  on  a  veteran,  the  record  of  his  battles. 


AMONG  THE  CORN-ROWS 

ROB  held  up  his  hands,  from  which  the  dough  depended  in 
ragged  strings. 

"Biscuits,"  he  said,  with  an  elaborate  working  of  his  jaws,  in> 
tended  to  convey  the  idea  that  they  were  going  to  be  specially 
delicious. 

Seagraves  laughed,  but  did  not  enter  the  shanty  door.  "How  do 
you  like  baching  it?" 

"Oh,  don't  mention  it!"  entreated  Rob,  mauling  the  dough 
again.  "Come  in  an*  sit  down.  What  in  thunder  y'  standin'  out 
there  for?" 

"Oh,  I'd  rather  be  where  I  can  see  the  prairie.  Great  weather!" 

"/m-mense!" 

"How  goes  breaking?" 

"Tip-top!  A  leetle  dry  now;  but  the  bulls  pull  the  plough 
through  two  acres  a  day.  How's  things  in  Boomtown  ?" 

"Oh,  same  old  grind." 

"Judge  still  lyin'?" 

"Still  at  it." 

"Major  Mullens  still  swearin'  to  it?" 

"You  hit  it  like  a  mallet.  Railroad  schemes  are  thicker  'n  prairie^ 
chickens.  You've  got  grit,  Rob.  I  don't  have  anything  but  crackers 
and  sardines  over  to  my  shanty,  and  here  you  are  making  soda- 
biscuit." 

"I  have  t'  do  it.  Couldn't  break  if  I  didn't.  You  editors  c'n  take 
things  easy,  lay  around  on  the  prairie,  and  watch  the  plovers  and 
medderlarks;  but  we  settlers  have  got  to  work." 

Leaving  Rob  to  sputter  over  his  cooking,  Seagraves  took  his 
slow  way  off  down  toward  the  oxen  grazing  in  a  little  hollow. 
The  scene  was  characteristically,  wonderfully  beautiful.  It  was 
about  five  o'clock  in  a  day  in  late  June,  and  the  level  plain  was 

88 


Among  the  Corn-Rows  89 

green  and  yellow,  and  infinite  in  reach  as  a  sea;  the  lowering  sun 
was  casting  over  its  distant  swells  a  faint  impalpable  mist,  through 
which  the  breaking  teams  on  the  neighboring  claims  ploughed 
noiselessly,  as  figures  in  a  dream.  The  whistle  of  gophers,  the  faint, 
wailing,  fluttering  cry  of  the  falling  plover,  the  whir  of  the  swift- 
winged  prairie-pigeon,  or  the  quack  of  a  lonely  duck,  came  through 
the  shimmering  air.  The  lark's  infrequent  whistle,  piercingly  sweet, 
broke  from  the  longer  grass  in  the  swales  near  by.  No  other  climate, 
sky,  plain,  could  produce  the  same  unnamable  weird  charm.  No  tree 
to  wave,  no  grass  to  rustle,  scarcely  a  sound  of  domestic  life;  only 
the  faint  melancholy  soughing  of  the  wind  in  the  short  grass,  and 
the  voices  of  the  wild  things  of  the  prairie. 

Seagraves,  an  impressionable  young  man  (junior  editor  of  the 
Boomtown  Spike),  threw  himself  down  on  the  sod,  pulled  his  hat- 
rim  down  over  his  eyes,  and  looked  away  over  the  plain.  It  was 
the  second  year  of  Boomtown's  existence,  and  Seagraves  had  not 
yet  grown  restless  under  its  monotony.  Around  him  the  gophers 
played  saucily.  Teams  were  moving  here  and  there  across  the  sod, 
with  a  peculiar  noiseless,  effortless  motion,  that  made  them  seem 
as  calm,  lazy,  and  insubstantial  as  the  mist  through  which  they 
made  their  way;  even  the  sound  of  passing  wagons  seemed  a  sort 
of  low,  well-fed,  self -satisfied  chuckle. 

Seagraves,  "holding  down  a  claim"  near  Rob,  had  come  to  see 
his  neighboring  "bach"  because  feeling  the  need  of  company;  but 
now  that  he  was  near  enough  to  hear  him  prancing  about  getting 
supper,  he  was  content  to  lie  alone  on  a  slope  of  the  green  sod. 

The  silence  of  the  prairie  at  night  was  well-nigh  terrible.  Many 
a  night,  as  Seagraves  lay  in  his  bunk  against  the  side  of  his  cabin, 
he  would  strain  his  ear  to  hear  the  slightest  sound,  and  be  listening 
thus  sometimes  for  minutes  before  the  squeak  of  a  mouse  or  the 
step  of  a  passing  fox  came  as  a  relief  to  the  aching  sense.  In  the 
daytime,  however,  and  especially  on  a  morning,  the  prairie  was 
another  thing.  The  pigeons,  the  larks,  the  cranes,  the  multitudinous 
voices  of  the  ground-birds  and  snipes  and  insects,  made  the  air 
pulsate  with  sound — a  chorus  that  died  away  into  an  infinite  mur- 
mur of  music. 


9O  Main-Travelled  Roads 

"Hello,  Seagraves!"  yelled  Rob  from  the  door.  "The  biscuits  are 
'most  done." 

Seagraves  did  not  speak,  only  nodded  his  head,  and  slowly  rose. 
The  faint  clouds  in  the  west  were  getting  a  superb  flame-color 
above  and  a  misty  purple  below,  and  the  sun  had  pierced  them 
with  lances  of  yellow  light.  As  the  air  grew  denser  with  moisture, 
the  sounds  of  neighboring  life  began  to  reach  the  air.  Children 
screamed  and  laughed,  and  afar  off  a  woman  was  singing  a  lullaby. 
The  rattle  of  wagons  and  the  voices  of  men  speaking  to  their  teams 
multiplied.  Ducks  in  a  neighboring  lowland  were  quacking 
sociably.  The  whole  scene  took  hold  upon  Seagraves  with  irresist- 
ible power. 

"It  is  American,"  he  exclaimed.  "No  other  land  or  time  can 
match  this  mellow  air,  this  wealth  of  color,  much  less  the  strange 
social  conditions  of  life  on  this  sunlit  Dakota  prairie." 

Rob,  though  visibly  affected  by  the  scene  also,  couldn't  let  his 
biscuit  spoil  or  go  without  proper  attention. 

"Say,  ain't  y'  comin'  t'  grub?"  he  asked  impatiently. 

"In  a  minute,"  replied  his  friend,  taking  a  last  wistful  look  at 
the  scene.  "I  want  one  more  look  at  the  landscape." 

"Landscape  be  blessed!  If  you'd  been  breakin'  all  day —  Come, 
take  that  stool  an'  draw  up." 

"No;  I'll  take  the  candle-box." 

"Not  much.  I  know  what  manners  are,  if  I  am  a  bull-driver." 

Seagraves  took  the  three-legged  and  rather  precarious-looking 
stool  and  drew  up  to  the  table,  which  was  a  flat  broad  box  nailed 
up  against  the  side  of  the  wall,  with  two  strips  of  board  spiked  at 
the  outer  corners  for  legs. 

"How's  that  f'r  a  lay-out?"  Rob  inquired  proudly. 

"Well,  you  have  spread  yourself!  Biscuit  and  canned  peaches 
and  sardines  and  cheese.  Why,  this  is — is — prodigal." 

"It  ain't  nothin'  else." 

Rob  was  from  one  of  the  finest  counties  of  Wisconsin,  over 
toward  Milwaukee.  He  was  of  German  parentage,  a  middle-sized, 
cheery,  wide-awake,  good-looking  young  fellow — a  typical  claim- 
holder.  He  was  always  confident,  jovial,  and  full  of  plans  for  the 


Among  the  Corn-Rows  91 

future.  He  had  dug  his  own  well,  built  his  own  shanty,  washed 
and  mended  his  own  clothing.  He  could  do  anything,  and  do  it 
well.  He  had  a  fine  field  of  wheat,  and  was  finishing  the  ploughing 
of  his  entire  quarter-section. 

"This  is  what  I  call  settin'  under  a  feller's  own  vine  an*  fig 
tree" — after  Seagraves'  compliments — "an'  I  like  it.  I'm  my  own 
boss.  No  man  can  say  'come  here'  'r  'go  there'  to  me.  I  get  up  when 
I'm  a  min'  to,  an'  go  t'  bed  when  I'm  a  min'  to." 

"Some  drawbacks,  I  s'pose?" 

"Yes.  Mice,  f'r  instance,  give  me  a  devilish  lot  o'  trouble.  They 
get  into  my  flour-barrel,  eat  up  my  cheese,  an'  fall  into  my  well. 
But  it  ain't  no  use  t'  swear." 

Seagraves  quoted  an  old  rhyme: 

'  'The   rats  and  the  mice  made  such   a  strife 
He  had  to  go  to  London  to  buy  him  a  wife.'  " 

"Don't  blush.  I've  probed  your  secret  thought." 

"Well,  to  tell  the  honest  truth,"  said  Rob,  a  little  sheepishly, 
leaning  across  the  table,  "I  ain't  satisfied  with  my  style  o'  cookin'. 
It's  good,  but  a  little  too  plain,  y'  know.  I'd  like  a  change.  It  ain't 
much  fun  to  break  all  day,  and  then  go  to  work  an'  cook  y'r  own 
supper." 

"No,  I  should  say  not." 

"This  fall  I'm  going  back  to  Wisconsin.  Girls  are  thick  as  huckle- 
berries back  there,  and  I'm  goin'  t'  bring  one  back,  now  you  hear 
me." 

"Good !  That's  the  plan,"  laughed  Seagraves,  amused  at  a  certain 
timid  and  apprehensive  look  in  his  companion's  eye.  "Just  think 
what  a  woman  would  do  to  put  this  shanty  in  shape;  and  think 
how  nice  it  would  be  to  take  her  arm  and  saunter  out  after  supper, 
and  look  at  the  farm,  and  plan,  and  lay  out  gardens  and  paths,  and 
tend  the  chickens!" 

Rob's  manly  and  self-reliant  nature  had  the  settler's  typical 
buoyancy  and  hopefulness,  as  well  as  a  certain  power  of  analysis, 
which  enabled  him  now  to  say:  "The  fact  is,  we  fellers  holdin' 
down  claims  out  here  ain't  fools  clear  to  the  rine.  We  know  a 


92  Main-Travelled  Roads 

couple  o'  things.  Now  I  didn't  leave  Waupac  County  f  r  fun.  Did 
y'  ever  see  Waupac?  Well,  it's  one  o*  the  handsomest  counties  the 
sun  ever  shone  on,  full  o'  lakes  and  rivers  and  groves  of  timber.  I 
miss  'em  all  out  here,  and  I  miss  the  boys  an'  girls ;  but  they  wa'n't 
no  chance  there  f'r  a  feller.  Land  that  was  good  was  so  blamed 
high  you  couldn't  touch  it  with  a  ten-foot  pole  from  a  balloon. 
Rent  was  high,  if  you  wanted  t'  rent,  an'  so  a  feller  like  me  had  t' 
get  out,  an'  now  I'm  out  here,  I'm  goin'  t'  make  the  most  of  it. 
Another  thing,"  he  went  on,  after  a  pause — "we  fellers  workin' 
out  back  there  got  more  'n'  more  like  hands,  an'  less  like  human 
beings.  Y'  know,  Waupac  is  a  kind  of  a  summer  resort,  and  the 
people  that  use'  t'  come  in  summers  looked  down  on  us  cusses  in 
the  fields  an'  shops.  I  couldn't  stand  it.  By  God !"  he  said,  with  a 
sudden  impulse  of  rage  quite  unusual,  "I'd  rather  live  on  an  iceberg 
and  claw  crabs  f'r  a  livin'  than  have  some  feller  passin'  me  on  the 
road  an' callin' me 'fellah!'" 

Seagraves  knew  what  he  meant,  but  listened  in  astonishment  at 
his  outburst. 

"I  consider  myself  a  sight  better  'n  any  man  who  lives  on  some- 
body else's  hard  work.  I've  never  had  a  cent  I  didn't  earn  with 
them  hands."  He  held  them  up  and  broke  into  a  grin.  "Beauties, 
ain't  they?  But  they  never  wore  gloves  that  some  other  poor  cuss 
earned." 

Seagraves  thought  them  grand  hands,  worthy  to  grasp  the  hand 
of  any  man  or  woman  living. 

"Well,  so  I  come  West,  just  like  a  thousand  other  fellers,  to 
get  a  start  where  the  cussed  European  aristocracy  hadn't  got  a 
holt  on  the  people.  I  like  it  here — course  I'd  like  the  lakes  an* 
meadows  of  Waupac  better — but  I'm  my  own  boss,  as  I  say,  and 
I'm  goin'  to  stay  my  own  boss  if  I  have  to  live  on  crackers  an' 
wheat  coffee  to  do  it ;  that's  the  kind  of  a  hair-pin  I  am." 

In  the  pause  which  followed,  Seagraves,  plunged  deep  into 
thought  by  Rob's  words,  leaned  his  head  on  his  hand.  This  work- 
ing farmer  had  voiced  the  modern  idea.  It  was  an  absolute  overturn 
of  all  the  ideas  of  nobility  and  special  privilege  born  of  the  feudal 
past. 


Among  the  Corn-Rows  93 

"I'd  like  to  use  your  idea  for  an  editorial,  Rob,"  he  said. 

"My  ideas!"  exclaimed  the  astounded  host,  pausing  in  the  act 
of  filling  his  pipe.  "My  ideas!  Why,  I  didn't  know  I  had  any." 

"Well,  you've  given  me  some,  anyhow." 

Seagraves  felt  that  it  was  a  wild,  grand  upstirring  of  the  modern 
democrat  against  the  aristocrat,  against  the  idea  of  caste  and  the 
privilege  of  living  on  the  labor  of  others.  This  atom  of  humanity 
(how  infinitesimal  this  drop  in  the  ocean  of  humanity!)  was  feel- 
ing the  nameless  longing  of  expanding  personality.  He  had  declared 
rebellion  against  laws  that  were  survivals  of  hate  and  prejudice. 
He  had  exposed  also  the  native  spring  of  the  emigrant  by  uttering 
the  feeling  that  it  is  better  to  be  an  equal  among  peasants  than  a 
servant  before  nobles. 

"So  I  have  good  reasons  f'r  liking  the  country,"  Rob  resumed, 
in  a  quiet  way.  "The  soil  is  rich,  the  climate  good  so  far,  an'  if  I 
have  a  couple  o'  decent  crops  you'll  see  a  neat  upright  goin'  up 
here,  with  a  porch  and  a  bay-winder." 

"And  you'll  still  be  living  here  alone,  frying  leathery  slapjacks 
an'  chopping  'taters  and  bacon." 

"I  think  I  see  myself,"  drawled  Rob,  "goin'  around  all  summer 
wearin'  the  same  shirt  without  washin',  an'  wipin'  on  the  same 
towel  four  straight  weeks,  an'  wearin'  holes  in  my  socks,  an' 
eatin'  musty  gingersnaps,  mouldy  bacon,  an'  canned  Boston  beans 
f'r  the  rest  o'  my  endurin'  days!  Oh,  yes;  I  guess  not!"  He  rose. 
"Well,  see  y'  later.  Must  go  water  my  bulls." 

As  he  went  off  down  the  slope,  Seagraves  smiled  to  hear  him 
sing: 

"I  wish  that  some  kind-hearted  girl 

Would  pity  on  me  take, 

And  extricate  me  from  the  mess  I'm  in. 

The  angel — how  I'd  bless  her, 

If  this  her  home  she'd  make, 

In  my  little  old  sod  shanty  on  the  plain." 

The  boys  nearly  fell  off  their  chairs  in  the  Western  House 
dining  room,  a  few  days  later,  when  Rob  came  in  to  supper  with  a 
collar  and  necktie  as  the  finishing  touch  of  a  remarkable  outfit. 


94  Main-Travelled  Roads 

"Hit  him,  somebody!" 

"It's  a  clean  collar!" 

"He's  started  f'r  Congress!" 

"He's  going  to  get  married,"  put  in  Seagraves,  in  a  tone  that 
brought  conviction. 

"What!"  screamed  Jack  Adams,  O'Neill,  and  Wilson,  in  one 
breath.  "That  man?" 

"That  man,"  replied  Seagraves,  amazed  at  Rob,  who  coolly  took 
his  seat,  squared  his  elbows,  pressed  his  collar  down  at  the  back, 
and  called  for  the  bacon  and  eggs. 

The  crowd  stared  at  him  in  a  dead  silence. 

"Where's  he  going  to  do  it?"  asked  Jack  Adams.  "Where's  he 
going  to  find  a  girl?" 

"Ask  him,"  said  Seagraves. 

"I  ain't  tellin',"  put  in  Rob,  with  his  mouth  full  of  potato. 

"You're  afraid  of  our  competition." 

"That's  right;  our  competition,  Jack;  not  your  competition. 
Come,  now,  Rob,  tell  us  where  you  found  her." 

"I  ain't  found  her." 

"What !  And  yet  you're  goin'  away  t'  get  married !" 

"I'm  goin'  t'  bring  a  wife  back  with  me  ten  days  fr'rn  date." 

"I  see  his  scheme,"  put  in  Jim  Rivers.  "He's  goin'  back  East 
somewhere,  an'  he's  goin'  to  propose  to  every  girl  he  meets." 

"Hold  on!"  interrupted  Rob,  holding  up  his  fork.  "Ain't  quite 
right.  Every  good  lookin  girl  I  meet." 

"Well,  I'll  be  blanked!"  exclaimed  Jack,  impressively;  "that 
simply  lets  me  out.  Any  man  with  such  a  cheek  ought  to " 

"Succeed,"  interrupted  Seagraves. 

"That's  what  I  say,"  bawled  Hank  Whiting,  the  proprietor  of 
the  house.  "You  fellers  ain't  got  any  enterprise  to  yeh.  Why  don't 
you  go  to  work  an'  help  settle  the  country  like  men?  'Cause  y' 
ain't  got  no  sand.  Girls  are  thicker  'n  huckleberries  back  East.  I 
say  it's  a  dum  shame!" 

"Easy,  Henry,"  said  the  elegant  bank-clerk,  Wilson,  looking 
gravely  about  through  his  spectacles.  "I  commend  the  courage  and 
the  resolution  of  Mr.  Rodemaker.  I  pray  the  lady  may  not 


Among  the  Corn-Rows  95 

'Mislike  him  for  his  complexion, 

The  shadowed  livery  of  the  burning  sun.'  " 

"Shakespeare,"  said  Adams,  at  a  venture. 

Wilson  turned  to  Rob.  "Brother  in  adversity,  when  do  you  em- 
bark another  Jason  on  an  untried  sea?" 

"Hay!"  said  Rob,  winking  at  Seagraves.  "Oh,  I  go  to-night — 
night  train." 

"And  return?" 

"Ten  days  from  date." 

"I'll  wager  a  wedding  supper  he  brings  a  blonde,"  said  Wilson, 
his  clean-cut,  languid  speech  compelling  attention. 

"Oh,  come,  now,  Wilson;  that's  too  thin!  We  all  know  that 
rule  about  dark  marryin'  light." 

"I'll  wager  she'll  be  tall,"  continued  Wilson.  "I'll  wager  you, 
friend  Rodemaker,  she'll  be  blonde  and  tall." 

The  rest  roared  at  Rob's  astonishment  and  confusion. 

The  absurdity  of  it  grew,  and  they  went  into  spasms  of  laugh- 
ter. But  Wilson  remained  impassive,  not  the  twitching  of  a  muscle 
betraying  that  he  saw  anything  to  laugh  at  in  the  proposition. 

Mrs.  Whiting  and  the  kitchen-girls  came  in,  wondering  at  the 
merriment.  Rob  began  to  get  uneasy. 

"What  is  it?  What  is  it?"  said  Mrs.  Whiting,  a  jolly  little 
matron. 

Rivers  put  the  case.  "Rob's  on  his  way  back  to  Wisconsin  t'  get 
married,  and  Wilson  has  offered  to  bet  him  that  his  wife  will  be  a 
blonde  and  tall,  and  Rob  dassent  bet!"  And  they  roared  again. 

"Why,  the  idea!  the  man's  crazy!"  said  Mrs.  Whiting. 

The  crowd  looked  at  each  other.  This  was  hint  enough;  they 
sobered,  nodding  at  each  other  commiseratingly. 

"Aha!  I  see;  I  understand." 

"It's  the  heat." 

"And  the  Boston  beans." 

"Let  up  on  him,  Wilson.  Don't  badger  a  poor  irresponsible  fel- 
low. I  thought  something  was  wrong  when  I  saw  the  collar." 

"Oh,  keep  it  up !"  said  Rob,  a  little  nettled  by  their  evident  in- 
tention to  have  fun  with  him. 


96  Main-Travelled  Roads 

"Soothe  him — soo-o-o-o-the  him!"  said  Wilson.  "Don't  be 
harsh." 

Rob  rose  from  the  table.  "Go  to  thunder !  You  fellows  make  me 
tired." 

"The  fit  is  on  him  again!" 

He  rose  disgustedly  and  went  out.  They  followed  him  in  single 
file.  The  rest  of  the  town  "caught  on."  Frank  Graham  heaved  an 
apple  at  him,  and  joined  the  procession.  Rob  went  into  the  store 
to  buy  some  tobacco.  They  all  followed,  and  perched  like  crows 
on  the  counters  till  he  went  out ;  then  they  followed  him,  as  before. 
They  watched  him  check  his  trunk;  they  witnessed  the  purchase 
of  the  ticket.  The  town  had  turned  out  by  this  time. 

"Waupac!"  announced  the  one  nearest  the  victim. 

"Waupac!"  said  the  next  man,  and  the  word  was  passed  along 
the  street  up  town. 

"Make  a  note  of  it,"  said  Wilson;  "Waupac — a  county  where 
a  man's  proposal  for  marriage  is  honored  upon  presentation.  Sight 
drafts." 

Rivers  struck  up  a  song,  while  Rob  stood  around,  patiently  bear- 
ing the  jokes  of  the  crowd : 

"We're  lookin'  rather  seedy  now, 

While  holdin'  down  our  claims, 

And  our  vittles  are  not  always  of  the  best, 

And  the  mice  play  slyly  round  us 

As  we  lay  down  to  sleep 

In  our  little  old  tarred  shanties  on  the  claim. 

"Yet  we  rather  like  the  novelty 

Of  livin'  in  this  way, 

Though  the  bill  of  fare  is  often  rather  tame; 

And  we're  happy  as  a  clam 

On  the  land  of  Uncle  Sam 

In  our  little  old  tarred  shanty  on  the  claim." 

The  train  drew  up  at  length,  to  the  immense  relief  of  Rob,  whose 
stoical  resignation  was  beginning  to  weaken. 

"Don't  y'  wish  y*  had  sand?"  he  yelled  to  the  crowd,  as  he 
plunged  into  the  car,  thinking  he  was  rid  of  them  at  last. 


Among  the  Corn-Rows  97 

He  was  mistaken.  Their  last  stroke  was  to  follow  him  into  the 
car,  nodding,  pointing  to  their  heads,  and  whispering,  managing 
in  the  half-minute  the  train  stood  at  the  platform  to  set  every 
person  in  the  car  staring  at  the  "crazy  man."  Rob  groaned,  and 
pulled  his  hat  down  over  his  eyes — an  action  which  confirmed  his 
tormentors'  words  and  made  several  ladies  click  their  tongues  in 
sympathy— "Tick!  tick!  poor  fellow!" 

"All  abo-o-o-a-rd\"  said  the  conductor,  grinning  his  apprecia- 
tion at  the  crowd,  and  the  train  was  off. 

"Oh,  won't  we  make  him  groan  when  he  gets  back!"  said  Barney, 
the  young  lawyer,  who  sang  the  shouting  tenor. 

"We'll  meet  him  with  the  timbrel  and  the  harp.  Anybody  want 
to  wager?  I've  got  two  to  one  on  a  short  brunette,"  said  Wilson. 

II 

"Follow  it  far  enough  and  it  may  pass  the  bend  in  the  river  where  the 
water  laughs  eternally  over  its  shallows." 

A  corn-field  in  July  is  a  sultry  place.  The  soil  is  hot  and  dry; 
the  wind  comes  across  the  lazily  murmuring  leaves  laden  with  a 
warm,  sickening  smell  drawn  from  the  rapidly  growing,  broad-flung 
banners  of  the  corn.  The  sun,  nearly  vertical,  drops  a  flood  of 
dazzling  light  upon  the  field  over  which  the  cool  shadows  run,  only 
to  make  the  heat  seem  the  more  intense. 

Julia  Peterson,  faint  with  hunger,  was  toiling  back  and  forth 
between  the  corn-rows,  holding  the  handles  of  the  double-shovel 
corn-plough,  while  her  little  brother  Otto  rode  the  steaming  horse. 
Her  heart  was  full  of  bitterness,  her  face  flushed  with  heat,  and 
her  muscles  aching  with  fatigue.  The  heat  grew  terrible.  The  corn 
came  to  her  shoulders,  and  not  a  breath  seemed  to  reach  her,  while 
the  sun,  nearing  the  noon  mark,  lay  pitilessly  upon  her  shoulders, 
protected  only  by  a  calico  dress.  The  dust  rose  under  her  feet,  and 
as  she  was  wet  with  perspiration  it  soiled  her  till  with  a  woman's 
instinctive  cleanliness,  she  shuddered.  Her  head  throbbed  danger- 
ously. What  matter  to  her  that  the  kingbird  pitched  jovially  from 
the  maples  to  catch  a  wandering  bluebottle  fly,  that  the  robin  was 


98  Main-Travelled  Roads 

feeding  its  young,  that  the  bobolink  was  singing?  All  these  things, 
if  she  saw  them,  only  threw  her  bondage  to  labor  into  greater  relief. 

Across  the  field,  in  another  patch  of  corn,  she  could  see  her 
father — a  big,  gruff-voiced,  wide-bearded  Norwegian — at  work 
also  with  a  plough.  The  corn  must  be  ploughed,  and  so  she  toiled 
on,  the  tears  dropping  from  the  shadow  of  the  ugly  sun-bonnet  she 
wore.  Her  shoes,  coarse  and  square-toed,  chafed  her  feet ;  her  hands, 
large  and  strong,  were  browned,  or,  more  properly,  burnt,  on  the 
backs  by  the  sun.  The  horse's  harness  "creak-cracked"  as  he  swung 
steadily  and  patiently  forward,  the  moisture  pouring  from  his 
sides,  his  nostrils  distended. 

The  field  bordered  on  a  road,  and  on  the  other  side  of  the  road 
ran  a  river — a  broad,  clear,  shallow  expanse  at  that  point,  and  the 
eyes  of  the  boy  gazed  longingly  at  the  pond  and  the  cool  shadow 
each  time  that  he  turned  at  the  fence. 

"Say,  Jule,  I'm  goin'  in!  Come,  can't  I?  Come — say!"  he 
:>leaded,  as  they  stopped  at  the  fence  to  let  the  horse  breathe. 

"I've  let  you  go  wade  twice." 

"But  that  don't  do  any  good.  My  legs  is  all  smarty,  'cause  oP 
Jack  sweats  so."  The  boy  turned  around  on  the  horse's  back  and 
slid  back  to  his  rump.  "I  can't  stand  it!"  he  burst  out,  sliding  off 
and  darting  under  the  fence.  "Father  can't  see." 

The  girl  put  her  elbows  on  the  fence  and  watched  her  little 
brother  as  he  sped  away  to  the  pool,  throwing  off  his  clothes  as  he 
ran,  whooping  with  uncontrollable  delight.  Soon  she  could  hear 
aim  splashing  about  in  the  water  a  short  distance  up  the  stream, 
and  caught  glimpses  of  his  little  shiny  body  and  happy  face.  How 
cool  that  water  looked!  And  the  shadows  there  by  the  big  bass- 
wood  !  How  that  water  would  cool  her  blistered  feet.  An  impulse 
seized  her,  and  she  squeezed  between  the  rails  of  the  fence,  and 
stood  in  the  road  looking  up  and  down  to  see  that  the  way  was 
clear.  It  was  not  a  main-travelled  road ;  no  one  was  likely  to  come  ; 
why  not? 

She  hurriedly  took  off  her  shoes  and  stockings — how  delicious 
the  cool,  soft  velvet  of  the  grass!  and  sitting  down  on  the  bank 
under  the  great  basswood,  whose  roots  formed  an  abrupt  bank,  she 


Among  the  Corn-Rows  99 

slid  her  poor  blistered,  chafed  feet  into  the  water,  her  bare  head 
leaned  against  the  huge  tree-trunk. 

And  now,  as  she  rested,  the  beauty  of  the  scene  came  to  her.  Over 
her  the  wind  moved  the  leaves.  A  jay  screamed  far  off,  as  if 
answering  the  cries  of  the  boy.  A  kingfisher  crossed  and  recrossed 
the  stream  with  dipping  sweep  of  his  wings.  The  river  sang  with  its 
lips  to  the  pebbles.  The  vast  clouds  went  by  majestically,  far  above 
the  tree-tops,  and  the  snap  and  buzzing  and  ringing  whir  of  July 
insects  made  a  ceaseless,  slumberous  undertone  of  song  solvent  of 
all  else.  The  tired  girl  forgot  her  work.  She  began  to  dream.  This 
would  not  last  always.  Some  one  would  come  to  release  her  from 
such  drudgery.  This  was  her  constant,  tenderest,  and  most  secret 
dream.  He  would  be  a  Yankee,  not  a  Norwegian.  The  Yankees 
didn't  ask  their  wives  to  work  in  the  field.  He  would  have  a  home. 
Perhaps  he'd  live  in  town — perhaps  a  merchant!  And  then  she 
thought  of  the  drug  clerk  in  Rock  River  who  had  looked  at  her — 
A  voice  broke  in  on  her  dream,  a  fresh,  manly  voice. 

"Well,  by  jinks!  if  it  ain't  Julia!  Just  the  one  I  wanted  to  see!" 

The  girl  turned,  saw  a  pleasant-faced  young  fellow  in  a  derby 
hat  and  a  cutaway  suit  of  diagonals. 

"Bob  Rodemaker !  How  come " 

She  remembered  her  situation  and  flushed,  looked  down  at  the 
water,  and  remained  perfectly  still. 

"Ain't  you  goin'  to  shake  hands?  Y'  don't  seem  very  glad  tj  see 
me." 

She  began  to  grow  angry.  "If  you  had  any  eyes,  you'd  see." 

Rob  looked  over  the  edge  of  the  bank,  whistled,  turned  away. 
"Oh,  I  see!  Excuse  me!  Don't  blame  yeh  a  bit,  though.  Good 
weather  f 'r  corn,"  he  went  on,  looking  up  at  the  trees.  "Corn  seems 
to  be  pretty  well  forward,"  he  continued,  in  a  louder  voice,  as  he 
walked  away,  still  gazing  into  the  air.  "Crops  is  looking  first-class 
in  Boomtown.  Hello!  This  Otto?  H'yare,  y'  little  scamp!  Get 
on  to  that  horse  agin.  Quick,  'r  I'll  take  y'r  skin  off  an'  hang  it  on 
the  fence.  What  y'  been  doin'  ?" 

"Ben  in  swimmin'.  Jimminy,  ain't  it  fun!  When  'dy'  get  back?" 
said  the  boy,  grinning. 


ioo  Main-Travelled  Roads 

"Never  you  mind !"  replied  Rob,  leaping  the  fence  by  laying  his 
left  hand  on  the  top  rail.  "Get  on  to  that  horse."  He  tossed  the  boy 
up  on  the  horse,  and  hung  his  coat  on  the  fence.  "I  s'pose  the  oP 
man  makes  her  plough,  same  as  usual?" 

"Yup,"  said  Otto. 

"Dod  ding  a  man  that'll  do  that !  I  don't  mind  if  it's  necessary, 
but  it  ain't  necessary  in  his  case."  He  continued  to  mutter  in  this 
way  as  he  went  across  to  the  other  side  of  the  field.  As  they  turned 
to  come  back,  Rob  went  up  and  looked  at  the  horse's  mouth. 
"Gettin'  purty  near  of  age.  Say,  who's  sparkin'  Julia  now — 
anybody  ?" 

"Nobody  'cept  some  ol'  Norwegians.  She  won't  have  them. 
For  wants  her  to,  but  she  won't." 

"Good  f'r  her.  Nobody  comes  t'  see  her  Sunday  nights,  eh?" 

"Nope;  only  'Tias  Anderson  an'  Ole  Hoover;  but  she  goes  off 
an'  leaves  'em." 

"Chk!"  said  Rob,  starting  old  Jack  across  the  field. 

It  was  almost  noon,  and  Jack  moved  reluctantly.  He  knew  the 
time  of  day  as  well  as  the  boy.  He  made  this  round  after  distinct 
protest. 

In  the  meantime  Julia,  putting  on  her  shoes  and  stockings,  went 
to  the  fence  and  watched  the  man's  shining  white  shirt  as  he 
moved  across  the  corn-field.  There  had  never  been  any  special 
tenderness  between  them,  but  she  had  always  liked  him.  They 
had  been  at  school  together.  She  wondered  why  he  had  come  back 
at  this  time  of  the  year,  and  wondered  how  long  he  would  stay. 
How  long  had  he  stood  looking  at  her?  She  flushed  again  at  the 
thought  of  it.  But  he  wasn't  to  blame;  it  was  a  public  road.  She 
might  have  known  better. 

She  stood  under  a  little  popple  tree,  whose  leaves  shook  musically 
at  every  zephyr,  and  her  eyes,  through  half-shut  lids,  roved  over  the 
sea  of  deep-green,  glossy  leaves,  dappled  here  and  there  by  cloud 
shadows,  stirred  here  and  there  like  water  by  the  wind ;  and  out  of 
it  all  a  longing  to  be  free  from  such  toil  rose  like  a  breath,  filling 
her  throat  and  quickening  the  motion  of  her  heart.  Must  this  go 


Among  the  Corn-Rows  101 

on  forever,  this  life  of  heat  and  dust  and  labor?  What  did  it  all 


mean  r 


The  girl  laid  her  chin  on  her  strong  red  wrists,  and  looked  up 
into  the  blue  spaces  between  the  vast  clouds — aerial  mountains 
dissolving  in  a  shoreless  azure  sea.  How  cool  and  sweet  and  rest- 
ful they  looked!  If  she  might  only  lie  out  on  the  billowy,  snow- 
white,  sunlit  edge!  The  voices  of  the  driver  and  the  ploughman 
recalled  her,  and  she  fixed  her  eyes  again  upon  the  slowly  nodding 
head  of  the  patient  horse,  on  the  boy  turned  half  about  on  his 
saddle,  talking  to  the  white-sleeved  man,  whose  derby  hat  bobbed 
up  and  down  quite  curiously,  like  the  horse's  head.  Would  she 
ask  him  to  dinner?  What  would  her  people  say? 

"Phew!  it's  hot!"  was  the  greeting  the  young  fellow  gave  as 
he  came  up.  He  smiled  in  a  frank,  boyish  way,  as  he  hung  his  hat 
on  the  top  of  a  stake  and  looked  up  at  her.  "DJ  y'  know,  I  kind 
o'  enjoy  gettin'  at  it  again?  Fact.  It  ain't  no  work  for  a  girl, 
though,"  he  added. 

"When  'd  you  get  back?"  she  asked,  the  flush  not  yet  out  of  her 
face.  Rob  was  looking  at  her  thick,  fine  hair  and  full  Scandinavian 
face,  rich  as  a  rose  in  color,  and  did  not  reply  for  a  few  seconds. 
She  stood  with  her  hideous  sun-bonnet  pushed  back  on  her  shoul- 
ders. A  kingbird  was  chattering  overhead. 

"Oh,  a  few  days  ago." 

"How  long  y'  goin'  t'  stay?" 

"Oh,  I  d'  know.  A  week,  mebbe." 

A  far-off  halloo  came  pulsing  across  the  shimmering  air.  The 
boy  screamed  "Dinner!"  and  waved  his  hat  with  an  answering 
whoop,  then  flopped  off  the  horse  like  a  turtle  off  a  stone  into 
water.  He  had  the  horse  unhooked  in  an  instant,  and  had  flung  his 
toes  up  over  the  horse's  back,  in  act  to  climb  on,  when  Rob  said : 

"H'yare,  young  feller!  wait  a  minute.  Tired?"  he  asked  the  girlt 
with  a  tone  that  was  more  than  kindly.  It  was  almost  tender. 

"Yes,"  she  replied,  in  a  low  voice.  "My  shoes  hurt  me." 

"Well,  here  y'  go,"  he  replied,  taking  his  stand  by  the  horse,, 
and  holding  out  his  hand  like  a  step.  She  colored  and  smiled  a 
little  as  she  lifted  her  foot  into  his  huge,  hard,  sunburned  hand. 


IO2  Main-Travelled  Roads 

"Oop-a-daisy!"  he  called.  She  gave  a  spring,  and  sat  on  the 
horse  like  one  at  home  there. 

Rob  had  a  deliciously  unconscious,  abstracted,  business-like  air. 
He  really  left  her  nothing  to  do  but  enjoy  his  company,  while  he 
went  ahead  and  did  precisely  as  he  pleased. 

"We  don't  raise  much  corn  out  there,  an'  so  I  kind  o'  like  to  see 
it  once  more." 

"I  wish  I  didn't  have  to  see  another  hill  of  corn  as  long  as  I 
live!"  replied  the  girl,  bitterly. 

"Don't  know  as  I  blame  yeh  a  bit.  But,  all  the  same,  I'm  glad 
you  was  working  in  it  to-day,"  he  thought  to  himself,  as  he  walked 
beside  her  horse  toward  the  house. 

"Will  you  stop  to  dinner?"  she  inquired  bluntly,  almost  surlily. 
It  was  evident  there  were  reasons  why  she  didn't  mean  to  press 
him  to  do  so. 

"You  bet  I  will,"  he  replied ;  "that  is,  if  you  want  I  should." 

"You  know  how  we  live,"  she  replied  evasively.  "If  you  can 
stand  it,  why — "  She  broke  off  abruptly. 

Yes,  he  remembered  how  they  lived  in  that  big,  square,  dirty, 
white  frame  house.  It  had  been  three  or  four  years  since  he  had 
been  in  it,  but  the  smell  of  the  cabbage  and  onions,  the  penetrating, 
peculiar  mixture  of  odors,  assailed  his  memory  as  something  un- 
forgettable. 

"I  guess  I'll  stop,"  he  said,  as  she  hesitated.  She  said  no  more, 
but  tried  to  act  as  if  she  were  not  in  any  way  responsible  for  what 
came  afterward. 

"I  guess  I  c'n  stand  f'r  one  meal  what  you  stand  all  the  while," 
he  added. 

As  she  left  them  at  the  well  and  went  to  the  house  he  saw  her 
limp  painfully,  and  the  memory  of  her  face  so  close  to  his  lips  as  he 
helped  her  down  from  the  horse  gave  him  pleasure  at  the  same  time 
that  he  was  touched  by  its  tired  and  gloomy  look.  Mrs.  Peterson 
came  to  the  door  of  the  kitchen,  looking  just  the  same  as  ever. 
Broad-faced,  unwieldy,  flabby,  apparently  wearing  the  same  dress 
he  remembered  to  have  seen  her  in  years  before, — a  dirty  drab- 


Among  the  Corn-Rows  103 

colored  thing, — she  looked  as  shapeless  as  a  sack  of  wool.  Her  Eng- 
lish was  limited  to,  "How  de  do,  Rob?" 

He  washed  at  the  pump,  while  the  girl,  in  the  attempt  to  be 
hospitable,  held  the  clean  towel  for  him. 

"You're  purty  well  used  up,  eh?"  he  said  to  her. 

"Yes ;  it's  awful  hot  out  there." 

"Can't  you  lay  off  this  afternoon?  It  ain't  right." 

"No.  He  won't  listen  to  that." 

"Well,  let  me  take  your  place." 

"No ;  there  ain't  any  use  o'  that." 

Peterson,  a  brawny,  wide-bearded  Norwegian,  came  up  at  this 
moment,  and  spoke  to  Rob  in  a  sullen,  gruff  way. 

"Hallo,  whan  yo'  gaet  back?" 

"To-day.  He  ain't  very  glad  to  see  me,"  said  Rob,  winking  at 
Julia.  "He  ain't  b'ilin'  over  with  enthusiasm;  but  I  c'n  stand  it, 
for  your  sake,"  he  added,  with  amazing  assurance;  but  the  girl 
had  turned  away,  and  it  was  wasted. 

At  the  table  he  ate  heartily  of  the  "bean  swaagen,"  which  filled 
a  large  wooden  bowl  in  the  centre  of  the  table,  and  which  was 
ladled  into  smaller  wooden  bowls  at  each  plate.  Julia  had  tried 
hard  to  convert  her  mother  to  Yankee  ways,  and  had  at  last  given 
it  up  in  despair.  Rob  kept  on  safe  subjects,  mainly  asking  questions 
about  the  crops  of  Peterson,  and  when  addressing  the  girl,  in- 
quired of  the  schoolmates.  By  skillful  questioning,  he  kept  the  sub- 
ject of  marriage  uppermost,  and  seemingly  was  getting  an  inventory 
of  the  girls  not  yet  married  or  engaged. 

It  was  embarrassing  for  the  girl.  She  was  all  too  well  aware  of 
the  difference  betweejj  her  home  and  the  home  of  her  schoolmates 
and  friends.  She  knew  that  it  was  not  pleasant  for  her  "Yankee" 
friends  to  come  to  visit  her  when  they  could  not  feel  sure  of  a 
welcome  from  the  tireless,  silent,  and  grim-visaged  old  Norse,  if, 
indeed,  they  could  escape  insult.  Julia  ate  her  food  mechanically, 
and  it  could  hardly  be  said  that  she  enjoyed  the  brisk  talk  of  the 
young  man,  his  eyes  were  upon  her  so  constantly  and  his  smile  so 
obviously  addressed  to  her.  She  rose  as  soon  as  possible  and,  going 
outside,  took  a  seat  on  a  chair  under  the  trees  in  the  yard.  She  was 


IO4  Main-Travelled  Roads 

not  a  coarse  or  dull  girl.  In  fact,  she  had  developed  so  rapidly  by 
contact  with  the  young  people  of  the  neighborhood  that  she  no 
longer  found  pleasure  in  her  own  home.  She  didn't  believe  in 
keeping  up  the  old-fashioned  Norwegian  customs,  and  her  life  with 
her  mother  was  not  one  to  breed  love  or  confidence.  She  was  more 
like  a  hired  hand.  The  love  of  the  mother  for  her  "Yulyie"  was 
sincere  though  rough  and  inarticulate,  and  it  was  her  jealousy  of 
the  young  "Yankees"  that  widened  the  chasm  between  the  girl 
and  herself — an  inevitable  result. 

Rob  followed  the  girl  out  into  the  yard,  and  threw  himself  on 
the  grass  at  her  feet,  perfectly  unconscious  of  the  fact  that  this  atti- 
tude was  exceedingly  graceful  and  becoming  to  them  both.  He  did 
it  because  he  wanted  to  talk  to  her,  and  the  grass  was  cool  and  easy ; 
there  wasn't  any  other  chair,  anyway. 

"Do  they  keep  up  the  ly-ceum  and  the  sociables  same  as  ever?" 

"Yes.  The  others  go  a  good  'eal,  but  I  don't.  We're  gettin'  such 
a  stock  round  us,  and  father  thinks  he  needs  me  s'  much,  I  don't 
get  out  often.  I'm  gettin'  sick  of  it." 

"I  sh'd  think  y'  would,"  he  replied,  his  eyes  on  her  face. 

"I  c'd  stand  the  churnin'  and  housework,  but  when  it  comes  t' 
workin'  outdoors  in  the  dirt  an'  hot  sun,  gettin'  all  sunburned 
and  chapped  up,  it's  another  thing.  An'  then  it  seems  as  if  he  gets 
stingier  'n'  stingier  every  year.  I  ain't  had  a  new  dress  in — I 
d'-know-how-long.  He  says  it's  all  nonsense,  an'  mother's  just  about 
as  bad.  She  don't  want  a  new  dress,  an'  so  she  thinks  I  don't."  The 
girl  was  feeling  the  influence  of  a  sympathetic  listener  and  was 
making  up  for  the  long  silence.  "I've  tried  t'  go  out  t'  work,  but 
they  won't  let  me.  They'd  have  t'  pay  a  hand  twenty  dollars  a 
month  f'r  the  work  I  do,  an'  they  like  cheap  help;  but  I'm  not 
goin'  t'  stand  it  much  longer,  I  can  tell  you  that." 

Rob  thought  she  was  very  handsome  as  she  sat  there  with  her 
eyes  fixed  on  the  horizon,  while  these  rebellious  thoughts  found 
utterance  in  her  quivering,  passionate  voice. 

"Yulie!  Kom  haar!"  roared  the  old  man  from  the  well. 

A  frown  of  anger  and  pain  came  into  her  face.  She  looked  at 
Rob.  "That  means  more  work." 


Among  the  Corn-Rows  105 

"Say!  let  me  go  out  in  your  place.  Come,  now;  what's  the 
use " 

"No;  it  wouldn't  do  no  good.  It  ain't  t'-day  s'  much;  it's  every 
day,  and " 

"Yulie !"  called  Peterson  again,  with  a  string  of  impatient  Nor- 
wegian. "Batter  yo'  kom  pooty  hal  quick." 

"Well,  all  right,  only  I'd  like  to—"  Rob  submitted. 

"Well,  good-by,"  she  said,  with  a  little  touch  of  feeling.  "When 
d'  ye  go  back?" 

"I  don't  know.  I'll  see  y'  again  before  I  go.  Good-by." 

He  stood  watching  her  slow,  painful  pace  till  she  reached  the 
well,  where  Otto  was  standing  with  the  horse.  He  stood  watching 
them  as  they  moved  out  into  the  road  and  turned  down  toward 
the  field.  He  felt  that  she  had  sent  him  away;  but  still  there  was  a 
look  in  her  eyes  which  was  not  altogether 

He  gave  it  up  in  despair  at  last.  He  was  not  good  at  analyses  of 
this  nature;  he  was  used  to  plain,  blunt  expressions.  There  was  a 
woman's  subtlety  here  quite  beyond  his  reach. 

He  sauntered  slowly  off  up  the  road  after  his  talk  with  Julia. 
His  head  was  low  on  his  breast;  he  was  thinking  as  one  who  is 
about  to  take  a  decided  and  important  step. 

He  stopped  at  length,  and,  turning,  watched  the  girl  moving 
along  in  the  deeps  of  the  corn.  Hardly  a  leaf  was  stirring ;  the  un- 
tempered  sunlight  fell  in  a  burning  flood  upon  the  field ;  the  grass- 
hoppers rose,  snapped,  buzzed,  and  fell;  the  locust  uttered  its  dry, 
heat-intensifying  cry.  The  man  lifted  his  head. 

"It's  a  d — n  shame!"  he  said,  beginning  rapidly  to  retrace  his 
steps.  He  stood  leaning  on  the  fence,  awaiting  the  girl's  coming 
very  much  as  she  had  waited  his  on  the  round  he  had  made  before 
dinner.  He  grew  impatient  at  the  slow  gait  of  the  horse,  and 
drummed  on  the  rail  while  he  whistled.  Then  he  took  off  his  hat 
and  dusted  it  nervously.  As  the  horse  got  a  little  nearer  he  wiped 
his  face  carefully,  pushed  his  hat  back  on  his  head,  and  climbed 
over  the  fence,  where  he  stood  with  elbows  on  the  middle  rail  as 
the  girl  and  boy  and  horse  came  to  the  end  of  the  furrow. 

"Hot,  ain't  it?"  he  said,  as  she  looked  up. 


106  Main-Travelled  Roads 

"Jimminy  Peters,  it's  awful!"  puffed  the  boy.  The  girl  did  not 
reply  till  she  swung  the  plough  about  after  the  horse,  and  set  it 
upright  into  the  next  row.  Her  powerful  body  had  a  superb  sway- 
ing motion  at  the  waist  as  she  did  this — a  motion  which  affected 
Rob  vaguely  but  massively. 

"I  thought  you'd  gone,"  she  said  gravely,  pushing  back  her  bonnet 
till  he  could  see  her  face  dewed  with  sweat,  and  pink  as  a  rose. 
She  had  the  high  cheek-bones  of  her  race,  but  she  had  also  their 
exquisite  fairness  of  color. 

"Say,  Otto,"  asked  Rob,  alluringly,  "wan'  to  go  swimmin'?" 

"You  bet,"  replied  Otto. 

"Well,  I'll  go  a  round  if " 

The  boy  dropped  off  the  horse,  not  waiting  to  hear  any  more. 
Rob  grinned,  but  the  girl  dropped  her  eyes,  then  looked  away. 

"Got  rid  o'  him  mighty  quick.  Say,  Julyie,  I  hate  like  thunder  t' 
see  you  out  here ;  it  ain't  right.  I  wish  you'd — I  wish " 

She  could  not  look  at  him  now,  and  her  bosom  rose  and  fell  with 
a  motion  that  was  not  due  to  fatigue.  Her  moist  hair  matted  around 
her  forehead  gave  her  a  boyish  look. 

Rob  nervously  tried  again,  tearing  splinters  from  the  fence. 
"Say,  now,  I'll  tell  yeh  what  I  came  back  here  for — t'  git  married ; 
and  if  you're  willin'  I'll  do  it  tonight.  Come,  now,  whaddy  y'  say?" 

"What've  /  got  t'  do  'bout  it?"  she  finally  asked,  the  color 
flooding  her  face,  and  a  faint  smile  coming  to  her  lips.  "Go  ahead. 
I  ain't  got  anything " 

Rob  put  a  splinter  in  his  mouth  and  faced  her.  "Oh,  looky  here, 
now,  Julyie!  you  know  what  I  mean.  I've  got  a  good  claim  out 
near  Boomtown — a  rattlin  good  claim ;  a  shanty  on  it  fourteen  by 
sixteen — no  tarred  paper  about  it,  and  a  suller  to  keep  butter  in, 
and  a  hundred  acres  o'  wheat  just  about  ready  to  turn  now.  I  need 
a  wife." 

Here  he  straightened  up,  threw  away  the  splinter,  and  took  off 
his  hat.  He  was  a  very  pleasant  figure  as  the  girl  stole  a  look  at 
him.  His  black  laughing  eyes  were  especially  earnest  just  now. 
His  voice  had  a  touch  of  pleading.  The  popple  tree  over  their  heads 
murmured  applause  at  his  eloquence,  then  hushed  to  listen.  A  cloud 


Among  the  Corn-Rows  107 

dropped  a  silent  shadow  down  upon  them,  and  it  sent  a  little  thrill 
of  fear  through  Rob,  as  if  it  were  an  omen  of  failure.  As  the  girl 
remained  silent,  looking  away,  he  began,  man-fashion,  to  desire  her 
more  and  more,  as  he  feared  to  lose  her.  He  put  his  hat  on  the  post 
again  and  took  out  his  jack-knife.  Her  calico  dress  draped  her  supple 
and  powerful  figure  simply  but  naturally.  The  stoop  in  her  shoul- 
ders, given  by  labor,  disappeared  as  she  partly  leaned  upon  the  fence. 
The  curves  of  her  muscular  arms  showed  through  her  sleeve. 

"It's  all-fired  lonesome  f'r  me  out  there  on  that  claim,  and  it 
ain't  no  picnic  f'r  you  here.  Now,  if  you'll  come  out  there  with 
me,  you  needn't  do  anything  but  cook  f'r  me,  and  after  harvest  we 
can  git  a  good  layout  o'  furniture,  an'  I'll  lath  and  plaster  the  house 
and  put  a  little  hell  [ell]  in  the  rear."  He  smiled,  and  so  did  she. 
He  felt  encouraged  to  say:  "An'  there  we  be,  as  snug  as  y'  please. 
We're  close  t'  Boomtown,  an'  we  can  go  down  there  to  church 
sociables  an'  things,  and  they're  a  jolly  lot  there." 

The  girl  was  still  silent,  but  the  man's  simple  enthusiasm  came 
to  her  charged  with  passion  and  a  sort  of  romance  such  as  her  hard 
life  had  known  little  of.  There  was  something  enticing  about  this 
trip  to  the  West. 

"What'll  my  folks  say?"  she  said  at  last. 

A  virtual  surrender,  but  Rob  was  not  acute  enough  to  see  it. 
He  pressed  on  eagerly: 

"I  don't  care.  Do  you?  They'll  jest  keep  y'  ploughin'  corn  and 
milkin'  cows  till  the  day  of  judgment.  Come,  Julyie,  I  ain't  got  no 
time  to  fool  away.  I've  got  t'  get  back  t'  that  grain.  It's  a  whoopin' 
old  crop,  sure's  y'r  born,  an'  that  means  sompin  purty  scrumptious 
in  furniture  this  fall.  Come,  now."  He  approached  her  and  laid 
his  hand  on  her  shoulder  very  much  as  he  would  have  touched 
Albert  Seagraves  or  any  other  comrade.  "Whaddy  y'  say?" 

She  neither  started  nor  shrunk  nor  looked  at  him.  She  simply 
moved  a  step  away.  "They'd  never  let  me  go,"  she  replied  bitterly. 
"I'm  too  cheap  a  hand.  I  do  a  man's  work  an'  get  no  pay  at  all." 

"You'll  have  half  o'  all  I  c'n  make,"  he  put  in. 

"How  long  c'n  you  wait  ?"  she  asked,  looking  down  at  her  dress. 

"Just  two  minutes,"  he  said,  pulling  out  his  watch.  "It  ain't  no 


io8  Main-Travelled  Roads 

use  t*  wait.  The  old  man'll  be  jest  as  mad  a  week  from  now  as  he 
is  to-day.  Why  not  go  now?" 

"I'm  of  age  in  a  few  days,"  she  mused,  wavering,  calculating. 

"You  c'n  be  of  age  to-night  if  you'll  jest  call  on  old  Squire 
Hatfield  with  me." 

"All  right,  Rob,"  the  girl  said,  turning  and  holding  out  her  hand. 

"That's  the  talk!"  he  exclaimed,  seizing  it.  "And  now  a  kiss,  to 
bind  the  bargain,  as  the  fellah  says." 

"I  guess  we  c'n  get  along  without  that." 

"No,  we  can't.  It  won't  seem  like  an  engagement  without  it." 

"It  ain't  goin'  to  seem  much  like  one,  anyway,"  she  answered, 
with  a  sudden  realization  of  how  far  from  her  dreams  of  courtship 
this  reality  was. 

"Say,  now  Julyie,  that  ain't  fair ;  it  ain't  treatin'  me  right.  You 
don't  seem  to  understand  that  I  like  you,  but  I  do." 

Rob  was  carried  quite  out  of  himself  by  the  time,  the  place,  and 
the  girl.  He  had  said  a  very  moving  thing. 

The  tears  sprang  involuntarily  to  the  girl's  eyes.  "Do  you  mean 
it?  If  y'  do,  you  may." 

She  was  trembling  with  emotion  for  the  first  time.  The  sincerity 
of  the  man's  voice  had  gone  deep. 

He  put  his  arm  around  her  almost  timidly,  and  kissed  her  on 
the  cheek,  a  great  love  for  her  springing  up  in  his  heart.  "That 
settles  it,"  he  said.  "Don't  cry,  Julyie.  You'll  never  be  sorry  for 
it.  Don't  cry.  It  kind  o'  hurts  me  to  see  it." 

He  hardly  understood  her  feelings.  He  was  only  aware  that  she 
was  crying,  and  tried  in  a  bungling  way  to  soothe  her.  But  now 
that  she  had  given  way,  she  sat  down  in  the  grass  and  wept  bitterly. 

"Yulyie!"  yelled  the  vigilant  old  Norwegian,  like  a  distant  fog- 
horn. 

The  girl  sprang  up;  the  habit  of  obedience  was  strong. 

"No;  you  set  right  here,  and  I'll  go  round,"  he  said.  "Otto!" 

The  boy  came  scrambling  out  of  the  wood,  half  dressed.  Rob 
tossed  him  upon  the  horse,  snatched  Julia's  sun-bonnet,  put  his 
own  hat  on  her  head,  and  moved  off  down  the  corn-rows,  leaving 
the  girl  smiling  through  her  tears  as  he  whistled  and  chirped  to 


Among  the  Corn-Rows  109 

the  horse.  Farmer  Peterson,  seeing  the  familiar  sun-bonnet  above 
the  corn-rows,  went  back  to  his  work,  with  a  sentence  of  Nor- 
wegian trailing  after  him  like  the  tail  of  a  kite — something  about 
lazy  girls  who  didn't  earn  the  crust  of  their  bread,  etc. 

Rob  was  wild  with  delight.  "Git  up  there,  Jack!  Hay,  you  old 
corncrib !  Say,  Otto,  can  you  keep  your  mouth  shet  if  it  puts  money 
in  your  pocket?" 

"Jest  try  me  'n'  see,"  said  the  keen-eyed  little  scamp. 

"Well,  you  keep  quiet  about  my  bein'  here  this  afternoon,  and 
I'll  put  a  dollar  on  y'r  tongue — hay? — what? — understand?" 

"Show  me  y'r  dollar,"  said  the  boy,  turning  about  and  showing 
his  tongue. 

"All  right.  Begin  to  practise  now  by  not  talkin'  to  me." 

Rob  went  over  the  whole  situation  on  his  way  back,  and  when 
he  got  in  sight  of  the  girl  his  plan  was  made.  She  stood  waiting 
for  him  with  a  new  look  on  her  face.  Her  sullenness  had  given 
way  to  a  peculiar  eagerness  and  anxiety  to  believe  in  him.  She  was 
already  living  that  free  life  in  a  far-off,  wonderful  country.  No 
more  would  her  stern  father  and  sullen  mother  force  her  to  tasks 
which  she  hated.  She'd  be  a  member  of  a  new  firm.  She'd  work,  of 
course,  but  it  would  be  because  she  wanted  to,  and  not  because  she 
was  forced  to.  The  independence  and  the  love  promised  grew  more 
and  more  attractive.  She  laughed  back  with  a  softer  light  in  her 
eyes,  when  she  saw  the  smiling  face  of  Rob  looking  at  her  from 
her  sun-bonnet. 

"Now  you  mustn't  do  any  more  o'  this,"  he  said.  "You  go  back 
to  the  house  an'  tell  y'r  mother  you're  too  lame  to  plough  any  more 
to-day,  and  it's  gettin'  late,  anyhow.  To-night!"  he  whispered 
quickly.  "Eleven!  Here!" 

The  girl's  heart  leaped  with  fear.  "I'm  afraid." 

"Not  of  me,  areyeh?" 

"No,  I'm  not  afraid  of  you,  Rob." 

"I'm  glad  o'  that.  I — I  want  you — to  like  me,  Julyie;  won't 


you?" 


Til  try,"  she  answered,  with  a  smile. 


no  Main-Travelled  Roads 

"To-night,  then,"  he  said,  as  she  moved  away. 

"To-night.  Good-by." 

"Good-by." 

He  stood  and  watched  her  till  her  tall  figure  was  lost  among  the 
drooping  corn-leaves.  There  was  a  singular  choking  feeling  in  his 
throat.  The  girl's  voice  and  face  had  brought  up  so  many  memories 
of  parties  and  picknics  and  excursions  on  far-off  holidays,  and  at 
the  same  time  held  suggestions  of  the  future.  He  already  felt  that 
it  was  going  to  be  an  unconscionably  long  time  before  eleven 
o'clock. 

He  saw  her  go  to  the  house,  and  then  he  turned  and  walked 
slowly  up  the  dusty  road.  Out  of  the  Mayweed  the  grasshoppers 
sprang,  buzzing  and  snapping  their  dull  red  wings.  Butterflies, 
yellow  and  white,  fluttered  around  moist  places  in  the  ditch,  and 
slender,  striped  water-snakes  glided  across  the  stagnant  pools  at 
sound  of  footsteps. 

But  the  mind  of  the  man  was  far  away  on  his  claim,  building  a 
new  house,  with  a  woman's  advice  and  presence. 

+  *•»** 

It  was  a  windless  night.  The  katydids  and  an  occasional  cricket 
were  the  only  sounds  Rob  could  hear  as  he  stood  beside  his  team 
and  strained  his  ear  to  listen.  At  long  intervals  a  little  breeze  ran 
through  the  corn  like  a  swift  serpent,  bringing  to  his  nostrils  the 
sappy  smell  of  the  growing  corn.  The  horses  stamped  uneasily  as 
the  mosquitoes  settled  on  their  shining  limbs.  The  sky  was  full  of 
stars,  but  there  was  no  moon. 

"What  if  she  don't  come  ?"  he  thought.  "Or  cant  come  ?  I  can't 
stand  that.  I'll  go  to  the  old  man  an'  say,  'Looky  here — '  Sh !" 

He  listened  again.  There  was  a  rustling  in  the  corn.  It  was  not 
like  the  fitful  movement  of  the  wind;  it  was  steady,  slower,  and 
approaching.  It  ceased.  He  whistled  the  wailing,  sweet  cry  of  the 
prairie-chicken.  Then  a  figure  came  out  into  the  road — a  woman — 
Julia! 

He  took  her  in  his  arms  as  she  came  panting  up  to  him. 


Among  the  Corn-Rows  in 

"Rob!" 

"Julyie!" 

****** 

A  few  words,  the  dull  tread  of  swift  horses,  the  rising  of  a  silent 
train  of  dust,  and  then — the  wind  wandered  in  the  growing  corn, 
the  dust  fell,  a  dog  barked  down  the  road,  and  the  katydids  sang 
to  the  liquid  contralto  of  the  river  in  its  shallows. 


THE  RETURN  OF  A  PRIVATE 

THE  nearer  the  train  drew  toward  La  Crosse,  the  soberer  the 
little  group  of  "vets"  became.  On  the  long  way  from  New  Or- 
leans they  had  beguiled  tedium  with  jokes  and  friendly  chaff;  or 
with  planning  with  elaborate  detail  what  they  were  going  to  do 
now,  after  the  war.  A  long  journey,  slowly,  irregularly,  yet  per- 
sistently pushing  northward.  When  they  entered  on  Wisconsin 
territory  they  gave  a  cheer,  and  another  when  they  reached  Madi- 
son, but  after  that  they  sank  into  a  dumb  expectancy.  Comrades 
dropped  off  at  one  or  two  points  beyond,  until  there  were  only  four 
or  five  left  who  were  bound  for  La  Crosse  County. 

Three  of  them  were  gaunt  and  brown,  the  fourth  was  gaunt  and 
pale,  with  signs  of  fever  and  ague  upon  him.  One  had  a  great  scar 
down  his  temple,  one  limped,  and  they  all  had  unnaturally  large, 
bright  eyes,  showing  emaciation.  There  were  no  hands  greeting 
them  at  the  station,  no  banks  of  gayly  dressed  ladies  waving  hand- 
kerchiefs and  shouting  "Bravo !"  as  they  came  in  on  the  caboose  of 
a  freight  train  into  the  towns  that  had  cheered  and  blared  at  them 
on  their  way  to  war.  As  they  looked  out  or  stepped  upon  the  plat- 
form for  a  moment,  while  the  train  stood  at  the  station,  the  loafers 
looked  at  them  indifferently.  Their  blue  coats,  dusty  and  grimy, 
were  too  familiar  now  to  excite  notice,  much  less  a  friendly  word. 
They  were  the  last  of  the  army  to  return,  and  the  loafers  were 
surfeited  with  such  sights. 

The  train  jogged  forward  so  slowly  that  it  seemed  likely  to  be 
midnight  before  they  should  reach  La  Crosse.  The  little  squad 
grumbled  and  swore,  but  it  was  no  use ;  the  train  would  not  hurry, 
and,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  it  was  nearly  two  o'clock  when  the  en- 
gine whistled  "down  brakes." 

All  of  the  group  were  farmers,  living  in  districts  several  miles 
out  of  the  town,  and  all  were  poor. 

112 


The  Return  of  a  Private  113 

"Now,  boys,"  said  Private  Smith,  he  of  the  fever  and  ague,  "we 
are  landed  in  La  Crosse  in  the  night.  We've  got  to  stay  somewhere 
till  mornin'.  Now  I  ain't  got  no  two  dollars  to  waste  on  a  hotel. 
I've  got  a  wife  and  children,  so  I'm  goin'  to  roost  on  a  bench  and 
take  the  cost  of  a  bed  out  of  my  hide." 

"Same  here,"  put  in  one  of  the  other  men.  "Hide'll  grow  on 
again,  dollars'll  come  hard.  It's  going  to  be  mighty  hot  skirmishin' 
to  find  a  dollar  these  days." 

"Don't  think  they'll  be  a  deptuation  of  citizens  waitin'  to  'scort 
us  to  a  hotel,  eh?"  said  another.  His  sarcasm  was  too  obvious  to 
require  an  answer. 

Smith  went  on,  "Then  at  daybreak  we'll  start  for  home — at 
least,  I  will." 

"Well,  I'll  be  dummed  if  I'll  take  two  dollars  out  o'  my  hide," 
one  of  the  younger  men  said.  "I'm  goin'  to  a  hotel,  ef  I  don't  never 
lay  up  a  cent." 

"That'll  do  f'r  you,"  said  Smith;  "but  if  you  had  a  wife  an' 
three  young  uns  dependin'  on  yeh — " 

"Which  I  ain't,  thank  the  Lord!  and  don't  intend  havin'  while 
the  court  knows  itself." 

The  station  was  deserted,  chill,  and  dark,  as  they  came  into  it  at 
exactly  a  quarter  to  two  in  the  morning.  Lit  by  the  oil  lamps  that 
flared  a  dull  red  light  over  the  dingy  benches,  the  waiting  room 
was  not  an  inviting  place.  The  younger  man  went  off  to  look  up  a 
hotel,  while  the  rest  remained  and  prepared  to  camp  down  on  the 
floor  and  benches.  Smith  was  attended  to  tenderly  by  the  other  men, 
who  spread  their  blankets  on  the  bench  for  him,  and,  by  robbing 
themselves,  made  quite  a  comfortable  bed,  though  the  narrowness 
of  the  bench  made  his  sleeping  precarious. 

It  was  chill,  though  August,  and  the  two  men,  sitting  with  bowed 
heads,  grew  stiff  with  cold  and  weariness,  and  were  forced  to  rise 
now  and  again  and  walk  about  to  warm  their  stiffened  limbs.  It  did 
not  occur  to  them,  probably,  to  contrast  their  coming  home  with 
their  going  forth,  or  with  the  coming  home  of  the  generals,  colo- 
nels, or  even  captains but  to  Private  Smith,  at  any  rate,  there 


H4  Main-Travelled  Roads 

came  a  sickness  at  heart  almost  deadly  as  he  lay  there  on  his  hard 
bed  and  went  over  his  situation. 

In  the  deep  of  the  night,  lying  on  a  board  in  the  town  where  he 
had  enlisted  three  years  ago,  all  elation  and  enthusiasm  gone  out 
of  him,  he  faced  the  fact  that  with  the  joy  of  home-coming  was 
already  mingled  the  bitter  juice  of  care.  He  saw  himself  sick,  worn 
out,  taking  up  the  work  on  his  half-cleared  farm,  the  inevitable 
mortgage  standing  ready  with  open  jaw  to  swallow  half  his  earn- 
ings. He  had  given  three  years  of  his  life  for  a  mere  pittance  of  pay, 
and  now ! — 

Morning  dawned  at  last,  slowly,  with  a  pale  yellow  dome  of 
light  rising  silently  above  the  bluffs,  which  stand  like  some  huge 
storm-devastated  castle,  just  east  of  the  city.  Out  to  the  left  the 
great  river  swept  on  its  massive  yet  silent  way  to  the  south.  Blue- 
jays  called  across  the  water  from  hillside  to  hillside  through  the 
clear,  beautiful  air,  and  hawks  began  to  skim  the  tops  of  the  hills. 
The  older  men  were  astir  early,  but  Private  Smith  had  fallen  at 
last  into  a  sleep,  and  they  went  out  without  waking  him.  He  lay 
on  his  knapsack,  his  gaunt  face  turned  toward  the  ceiling,  his  hands 
clasped  on  his  breast,  with  a  curious  pathetic  effect  of  weakness  and 
appeal. 

An  engine  switching  near  woke  him  at  last,  and  he  slowly  sat  up 
and  stared  about.  He  looked  out  of  the  window  and  saw  that  the 
sun  was  lightening  the  hills  across  the  river.  He  rose  and  brushed 
his  hair  as  well  as  he  could,  folded  his  blankets  up,  and  went  out 
to  find  his  companions.  They  stood  gazing  silently  at  the  river  and 
at  the  hills. 

"Looks  natcher'l,  don't  it?"  they  said,  as  he  came  out. 

"That's  what  it  does,"  he  replied.  "An'  it  looks  good.  D'  yeh  see 
that  peak  ?"  He  pointed  at  a  beautiful  symmetrical  peak,  rising  like 
a  slightly  truncated  cone,  so  high  that  it  seemed  the  very  highest  of 
them  all.  It  was  touched  by  the  morning  sun  and  it  glowed  like  a 
beacon,  and  a  light  scarf  of  gray  morning  fog  was  rolling  up  its 
shadowed  side. 

"My  farm's  just  beyond  that.  Now,  if  I  can  only  ketch  a  ride, 
we'll  be  home  by  dinner-time." 


The  Return  of  a  Private  115 

"I'm  talkin'  about  breakfast,"  said  one  of  the  others. 

"I  guess  it's  one  more  meal  o'  hardtack  f'r  me,"  said  Smith. 

They  foraged  around,  and  finally  found  a  restaurant  with  a 
sleepy  old  German  behind  the  counter,  and  procured  some  coffee, 
which  they  drank  to  wash  down  their  hardtack. 

"Time'll  come,"  said  Smith,  holding  up  a  piece  by  the  corner, 
"when  this'll  be  a  curiosity." 

"I  hope  to  God  it  will!  I  bet  I've  chawed  hardtack  enough  to 
shingle  every  house  in  the  coolly.  I've  chawed  it  when  my  lampers 
was  down,  and  when  they  wasn't.  I've  took  it  dry,  soaked,  and 
mashed.  I've  had  it  wormy,  musty,  sour,  and  blue-mouldy.  I've  had 
it  in  little  bits  and  big  bits ;  'fore  coffee  an'  after  coffee.  I'm  ready 
f'r  a  change.  I'd  like  t'  git  holt  jest  about  now  o'  some  of  the  hot 
biscuits  my  wife  c'n  make  when  she  lays  herself  out  f'r  company." 

"Well,  if  you  set  there  gabblin',  you'll  never  see  yer  wife." 

"Come  on,"  said  Private  Smith.  "Wait  a  moment,  boys;  less  take 
suthin'.  It's  on  me."  He  led  them  to  the  rusty  tin  dipper  which 
hung  on  a  nail  beside  the  wooden  water-pail,  and  they  grinned  and 
drank.  Then  shouldering  their  blankets  and  muskets,  which  they 
were  "takin'  home  to  the  boys,"  they  struck  out  on  their  last 
march. 

"They  called  that  coffee  Jayvy,"  grumbled  one  of  them,  "but  it 
never  went  by  the  road  where  government  Jayvy  resides.  I  reckon 
I  know  coffee  from  peas." 

They  kept  together  on  the  road  along  the  turnpike,  and  up  the 
winding  road  by  the  river,  which  they  followed  for  some  miles.  The 
river  was  very  lovely,  curving  down  along  its  sandy  beds,  pausing 
now  and  then  under  broad  basswood  trees,  or  running  in  dark, 
swift,  silent  currents  under  tangles  of  wild  grapevines,  and  droop- 
ing alders,  and  haw  trees.  At  one  of  these  lovely  spots  the  three  vets 
sat  down  on  the  thick  green  sward  to  rest,  "on  Smith's  account." 
The  leaves  of  the  trees  were  as  fresh  and  green  as  in  June,  the  jays 
called  cheery  greetings  to  them,  and  kingfishers  darted  to  and  fro 
with  swooping,  noiseless  flight. 

"I  tell  yeh,  boys,  this  knocks  the  swamps  of  Loueesiana  into 
kingdom  come." 


n6  Main-Travelled  Roads 

"You  bet.  All  they  c'n  raise  down  there  is  snakes,  niggers,  and 
p'rticler  hell." 

"An'  fighting  men,"  put  in  the  older  man. 

"An'  fightin'  men.  If  I  had  a  good  hook  an'  line  I'd  sneak  a 
pick'rel  out  o'  that  pond.  Say,  remember  that  time  I  shot  that  alli- 
gator   " 

"I  guess  we'd  better  be  crawlin'  along,"  interrupted  Smith,  ris- 
ing and  shouldering  his  knapsack,  with  considerable  effort,  which 
he  tried  to  hide. 

"Say,  Smith,  lemme  give  you  a  lift  on  that." 

"I  guess  I  c'n  manage,"  said  Smith,  grimly. 

"Course.  But,  yo'  see,  I  may  not  have  a  chance  right  off  to  pay 
yeh  back  for  the  times  you've  carried  my  gun  and  hull  caboodle. 
Say,  now,  gimme  that  gun,  anyway." 

"All  right,  if  yeh  feel  like  it,  Jim,"  Smith  replied,  and  they 
trudged  along  doggedly  in  the  sun,  which  was  getting  higher  and 
hotter  each  half-mile. 

"Ain't  it  queer  there  ain't  no  teams  comin'  along,"  said  Smith, 
after  a  long  silence. 

"Well,  no,  seein's  it's  Sunday." 

"By  jinks,  that's  a  fact.  It  is  Sunday.  I'll  git  home  in  time  f'r 
dinner,  sure!"  he  exulted.  "She  don't  hev  dinner  usially  till  about 
one  on  Sundays."  And  he  fell  into  a  muse,  in  which  he  smiled. 

"Well,  I'll  git  home  jest  about  six  o'clock,  jest  about  when  the 
boys  are  milkin'  the  cows,"  said  old  Jim  Cranby.  "I'll  step  into  the 
barn,  an'  then  I'll  say:  'Heahl  why  ain't  this  milkin'  done  before 
this  time  o'  day?'  An'  then  won't  they  yell!"  he  added,  slapping 
his  thigh  in  great  glee. 

Smith  went  on.  "I'll  jest  go  up  the  path.  Old  Rover'll  come 
down  the  road  to  meet  me.  He  won't  bark ;  he'll  know  me,  an'  he'll 
come  down  waggin'  his  tail  an'  showin'  his  teeth.  That's  his  way 
of  laughin'.  An'  so  I'll  walk  up  to  the  kitchen  door,  an'  I'll  say, 
' Dinner  f'r  a  hungry  man !'  An'  then  she'll  jump  up,  an' " 

He  couldn't  go  on.  His  voice  choked  at  the  thought  of  it.  Saun- 
ders,  the  third  man,  hardly  uttered  a  word,  but  walked  silently 
behind  the  others.  He  had  lost  his  wife  the  first  year  he  was  in  the 


The  Return  of  a  Private  1 17 

army.  She  died  of  pneumonia,  caught  in  the  autumn  rains  while 
working  in  the  fields  in  his  place. 

They  plodded  along  till  at  last  they  came  to  a  parting  of  the 
ways.  To  the  right  the  road  continued  up  the  main  valley;  to  the 
left  it  went  over  the  big  ridge. 

"Well,  boys,"  began  Smith,  as  they  grounded  their  muskets  and 
looked  away  up  the  valley,  "here's  where  we  shake  hands.  We've 
marched  together  a  good  many  miles,  an'  now  I  s'pose  we're  done." 

"Yes,  I  don't  think  we'll  do  any  more  of  it  f'r  a  while.  I  don't 
want  to,  I  know." 

"I  hope  I'll  see  yeh  once  in  a  while,  boys,  to  talk  over  old  times." 

"Of  course,"  said  Saunders,  whose  voice  trembled  a  little,  too. 
"It  ain't  exactly  like  dyin'."  They  all  found  it  hard  to  look  at  each 
other. 

"But  we'd  ought'r  go  home  with  you,"  said  Cranby.  "You'll 
never  climb  that  ridge  with  all  them  things  on  yer  back." 

"Oh,  I'm  all  right!  Don't  worry  about  me.  Every  step  takes  me 
nearer  home,  yeh  see.  Well,  good-by,  boys." 

They  shook  hands.  "Good-by.  Good  luck!" 

"Same  to  you.  Lemme  know  how  you  find  things  at  home." 

"Good-by." 

"Good-by." 

He  turned  once  before  they  passed  out  of  sight,  and  waved  his 
cap,  and  they  did  the  same,  and  all  yelled.  Then  all  marched  away 
with  their  long,  steady,  loping,  veteran  step.  The  solitary  climber 
in  blue  walked  on  for  a  time,  with  his  mind  filled  with  the  kind- 
ness of  his  comrades,  and  musing  upon  the  many  wonderful  days 
they  had  had  together  in  camp  and  field. 

He  thought  of  his  chum,  Billy  Tripp.  Poor  Billy!  A  "minie" 
ball  fell  into  his  breast  one  day,  fell  wailing  like  a  cat,  and  tore  a 
great  ragged  hole  in  his  heart.  He  looked  forward  to  a  sad  scene 
with  Billy's  mother  and  sweetheart.  They  would  want  to  know  all 
about  it.  He  tried  to  recall  all  that  Billy  had  said,  and  the  partic- 
ulars of  it,  but  there  was  little  to  remember,  just  that  wild  wailing 
sound  high  in  the  air,  a  dull  slap,  a  short,  quick,  expulsive  groan, 


ii8  Main-Travelled  Roads 

and  the  boy  lay  with  his  face  in  the  dirt  in  the  ploughed  field  they 
were  marching  across. 

That  was  all.  But  all  the  scenes  he  had  since  been  through  had 
not  dimmed  the  horror,  the  terror  of  that  moment,  when  his  boy 
comrade  fell,  with  only  a  breath  between  a  laugh  and  a  death- 
groan.  Poor  handsome  Billy!  Worth  millions  of  dollars  was  his 
young  life. 

These  sombre  recollections  gave  way  at  length  to  more  cheerful 
feelings  as  he  began  to  approach  his  home  coolly.  The  fields  and 
houses  grew  familiar,  and  in  one  or  two  he  was  greeted  by  people 
seated  in  the  doorways.  But  he  was  in  no  mood  to  talk,  and  pushed 
on  steadily,  though  he  stopped  and  accepted  a  drink  of  milk  once 
at  the  well-side  of  a  neighbor. 

The  sun  was  burning  hot  on  that  slope,  and  his  step  grew  slower, 
in  spite  of  his  iron  resolution.  He  sat  down  several  times  to  rest. 
Slowly  he  crawled  up  the  rough,  reddish-brown  road,  which  wound 
along  the  hillside,  under  great  trees,  through  dense  groves  of  jack 
oaks,  with  tree-tops  far  below  him  on  his  left  hand,  and  the  hills 
far  above  him  on  his  right.  He  crawled  along  like  some  minute, 
wingless  variety  of  fly. 

He  ate  some  hardtack,  sauced  with  wild  berries,  when  he  reached 
the  summit  of  the  ridge,  and  sat  there  for  some  time,  looking  down 
into  his  home  coolly. 

Sombre,  pathetic  figure !  His  wide,  round,  gray  eyes  gazing  down 
into  the  beautiful  valley,  seeing  and  not  seeing,  the  splendid  cloud- 
shadows  sweeping  over  the  western  hills  and  across  the  green  and 
yellow  wheat  far  below.  His  head  drooped  forward  on  his  palm, 
his  shoulders  took  on  a  tired  stoop,  his  cheek-bones  showed  pain- 
fully. An  observer  might  have  said,  "He  is  looking  down  upon 
his  own  grave." 

II 

Sunday  comes  in  a  Western  wheat  harvest  with  such  sweet  ant 
sudden  relaxation  to  man  and  beast  that  it  would  be  holy  for  that 
reason,  if  for  no  other,  and  Sundays  are  usually  fair  in  harvest-time. 
As  one  goes  out  into  the  field  in  the  hot  morning  sunshine,  with  no 


The  Return  of  a  Private  119 

sound  abroad  save  the  crickets  and  the  indescribably  pleasant  silken 
rustling  of  the  ripened  grain,  the  reaper  and  the  very  sheaves  in 
the  stubble  seem  to  be  resting,  dreaming. 

Around  the  house,  in  the  shade  of  the  trees,  the  men  sit,  smoking, 
dozing,  or  reading  the  papers,  while  the  women,  never  resting, 
move  about  at  the  housework.  The  men  eat  on  Sundays  about  the 
same  as  on  other  days,  and  breakfast  is  no  sooner  over  and  out  of 
the  way  than  dinner  begins. 

But  at  the  Smith  farm  there  were  no  men  dozing  or  reading. 
Mrs.  Smith  was  alone  with  her  three  children,  Mary,  nine,  Tommy, 
six,  and  little  Ted,  just  past  four.  Her  farm,  rented  to  a  neighbor, 
lay  at  the  head  of  a  coolly  or  narrow  gully,  made  at  some  far-off 
post-glacial  period  by  the  vast  and  angry  floods  of  water  which 
gullied  these  tremendous  furrows  in  the  level  prairie — furrows  so 
deep  that  undisturbed  portions  of  the  original  level  rose  like  hills 
on  either  side,  rose  to  quite  considerable  mountains. 

The  chickens  wakened  her  as  usual  that  Sabbath  morning  from 
dreams  of  her  absent  husband,  from  whom  she  had  not  heard  for 
weeks.  The  shadows  drifted  over  the  hills,  down  the  slopes,  across 
the  wheat,  and  up  the  opposite  wall  in  leisurely  way,  as  if,  being 
Sunday,  they  could  take  it  easy  also.  The  fowls  clustered  about  the 
housewife  as  she  went  out  into  the  yard.  Fuzzy  little  chickens 
swarmed  out  from  the  coops,  where  their  clucking  and  perpetually 
disgruntled  mothers  tramped  about,  petulantly  thrusting  their  heads 
through  the  spaces  between  the  slats. 

A  cow  called  in  a  deep,  musical  bass,  and  a  calf  answered  from 
a  little  pen  near  by,  and  a  pig  scurried  guiltily  out  of  the  cabbages. 
Seeing  all  this,  seeing  the  pig  in  the  cabbages,  the  tangle  of  grass  in 
the  garden,  the  broken  fence  which  she  had  mended  again  and  again 
— the  little  woman,  hardly  more  than  a  girl,  sat  down  and  cried. 
The  bright  Sabbath  morning  was  only  a  mockery  without  him ! 

A  few  years  ago  they  had  bought  this  farm,  paying  part,  mort- 
gaging the  rest  in  the  usual  way.  Edward  Smith  was  a  man  of  ter- 
rible energy.  He  worked  "nights  and  Sundays,"  as  the  saying  goes, 
to  clear  the  farm  of  its  brush  and  of  its  insatiate  mortgage !  In  the 
midst  of  his  Herculean  struggle  came  the  call  for  volunteers,  and 


Main-Travelled  Roads 

with  the  grim  and  unselfish  devotion  to  his  country  which  made 
the  Eagle  Brigade  able  to  "whip  its  weight  in  wild-cats,"  he  threw 
down  his  scythe  and  grub-axe,  turned  his  cattle  loose,  and  became 
a  blue-coated  cog  in  a  vast  machine  for  killing  men,  and  not  thistles. 
While  the  millionaire  sent  his  money  to  England  for  safe-keeping, 
this  man,  with  his  girl-wife  and  three  babies,  left  them  on  a  mort- 
gaged farm,  and  went  away  to  fight  for  an  idea.  It  was  foolish, 
but  it  was  sublime  for  all  that. 

That  was  three  years  before,  and  the  young  wife,  sitting  on  the 
well-curb  on  this  bright  Sabbath  harvest  morning,  was  righteously 
rebellious.  It  seemed  to  her  that  she  had  borne  her  share  of  the 
country's  sorrow.  Two  brothers  had  been  killed,  the  renter  in 
whose  hands  her  husband  had  left  the  farm  had  proved  a  villain; 
one  year  the  farm  had  been  without  crops,  and  now  the  overripe 
grain  was  waiting  the  tardy  hand  of  the  neighbor  who  had  rented 
it,  and  who  was  cutting  his  own  grain  first. 

About  six  weeks  before,  she  had  received  a  letter  saying,  "We'll 
be  discharged  in  a  little  while."  But  no  other  word  had  come  from 
him.  She  had  seen  by  the  papers  that  his  army  was  being  discharged, 
and  from  day  to  day  other  soldiers  slowly  percolated  in  blue  streams 
back  into  the  State  and  county,  but  still  her  hero  did  not  return. 

Each  week  she  had  told  the  children  that  he  was  coming,  and  she 
had  watched  the  road  so  long  that  it  had  become  unconscious ;  and 
as  she  stood  at  the  well,  or  by  the  kitchen  door,  her  eyes  were  fixed 
unthinkingly  on  the  road  that  wound  down  the  coolly. 

Nothing  wears  on  the  human  soul  like  waiting.  If  the  stranded 
mariner,  searching  the  sun-bright  seas,  could  once  give  up  hope  of 
a  ship,  that  horrible  grinding  on  his  brain  would  cease.  It  was  this 
waiting,  hoping,  on  the  edge  of  despair,  that  gave  Emma  Smith  no 
rest. 

Neighbors  said,  with  kind  intentions:  "He's  sick,  maybe,  an* 
can't  start  north  just  yet.  He'll  come  along  one  o'  these  days." 

"Why  don't  he  write?"  was  her  question,  which  silenced  them 
all.  This  Sunday  morning  it  seemed  to  her  as  if  she  could  not  stand 
it  longer.  The  house  seemed  intolerably  lonely.  So  she  dressed  the 


The  Return  of  a  Private  121 

little  ones  in  their  best  calico  dresses  and  home-made  jackets,  and, 
closing  up  the  house,  set  off  down  the  coolly  to  old  Mother  Gray's. 

"Old  Widder  Gray"  lived  at  the  "mouth  of  the  coolly."  She 
was  a  widow  woman  with  a  large  family  of  stalwart  boys  and 
laughing  girls.  She  was  the  visible  incarnation  of  hospitality  and 
optimistic  poverty.  With  Western  open-heartedness  she  fed  every 
mouth  that  asked  food  of  her,  and  worked  herself  to  death  as 
cheerfully  as  her  girls  danced  in  the  neighborhood  harvest  dances. 

She  waddled  down  the  path  to  meet  Mrs.  Smith  with  a  broad 
smile  on  her  face. 

"Oh,  you  little  dears !  Come  right  to  your  granny.  Gimme  me  a 
kiss!  Come  right  in,  Mis'  Smith.  How  are  yeh,  anyway?  Nice 
mornin',  ain't  it?  Come  in  an'  set  down.  Everything's  in  a  clutter, 
but  that  won't  scare  you  any." 

She  led  the  way  into  the  best  room,  a  sunny,  square  room,  car- 
peted with  a  faded  and  patched  rag  carpet,  and  papered  with  white- 
and-green  wall-paper,  where  a  few  faded  effigies  of  dead  members 
of  the  family  hung  in  variously  sized  oval  walnut  frames.  The 
house  resounded  with  singing,  laughter,  whistling,  tramping  of 
heavy  boots,  and  riotous  scufflings.  Half-grown  boys  came  to  the 
door  and  crooked  their  fingers  at  the  children,  who  ran  out,  and 
were  soon  heard  in  the  midst  of  the  fun. 

"Don't  s'pose  you've  heard  from  Ed?"  Mrs.  Smith  shook  her 
head.  "He'll  turn  up  some  day,  when  you  ain't  lookin'  for  'm."  The 
good  old  soul  had  said  that  so  many  times  that  poor  Mrs.  Smith 
derived  no  comfort  from  it  any  longer. 

"Liz  heard  from  Al  the  other  day.  He's  comin'  some  day  this 
week.  Anyhow,  they  expect  him." 

"Did  he  say  anything  of " 

"No,  he  didn't,"  Mrs.  Gray  admitted.  "But  then  it  was  only  a 
short  letter,  anyhow.  Al  ain't  much  for  writin',  anyhow. — But 
come  out  and  see  my  new  cheese.  I  tell  yeh,  I  don't  believe  I  ever 
had  better  luck  in  my  life.  If  Ed  should  come,  I  want  you  should 
take  him  up  a  piece  of  this  cheese." 

It  was  beyond  human  nature  to  resist  the  influence  of  that  noisy, 
hearty,  loving  household,  and  in  the  midst  of  the  singing  and  laugh- 


122  Main-Travelled  Roads 

ing  the  wife  forgot  her  anxiety,  for  the  time  at  least,  and  laughed 
and  sang  with  the  rest. 

About  eleven  o'clock  a  wagon-load  more  drove  up  to  the  door, 
and  Bill  Gray,  the  widow's  oldest  son,  and  his  whole  family,  from 
Sand  Lake  Coolly,  piled  out  amid  a  good-natured  uproar.  Every 
one  talked  at  once,  except  Bill,  who  sat  in  the  wagon  with  his  wrists 
on  his  knees,  a  straw  in  his  mouth,  and  an  amused  twinkle  in  his 
blue  eyes. 

"Ain't  heard  nothin'  o'  Ed,  I  s'pose?"  he  asked  in  a  kind  of  bel- 
low. Mrs.  Smith  shook  her  head.  Bill,  with  a  delicacy  very  strik- 
ing in  such  a  great  giant,  rolled  his  quid  in  his  mouth,  and  said : 

"Didn't  know  but  you  had.  I  hear  two  or  three  of  the  Sand  Lake 
boys  are  comin'.  Left  New  Orleenes  some  time  this  week.  Didn't 
write  nothin'  about  Ed,  but  no  news  is  good  news  in  such  cases, 
mother  always  says." 

"Well,  go  put  out  yer  team,"  said  Mrs.  Gray,  "an'  go'n  bring 
me  in  some  taters,  an',  Sim,  you  go  see  if  you  c'n  find  some  corn. 
Sadie,  you  put  on  the  water  to  bile.  Come  now,  hustle  yer  boots,  all 
o'  yeh.  If  I  feed  this  yer  crowd,  we've  got  to  have  some  raw  mate- 
rials. If  y'  think  I'm  goin'  to  feed  yeh  on  pie — you're  just  mightily 
mistaken." 

The  children  went  off  into  the  field,  the  girls  put  dinner  on  to 
boil,  and  then  went  to  change  their  dresses  and  fix  their  hair. 
"Somebody  might  come,"  they  said. 

"Land  sakes,  /  hope  not!  I  don't  know  where  in  time  I'd  set  'em, 
'less  they'd  eat  at  the  second  table,"  Mrs.  Gray  laughed,  in  pre- 
tended dismay. 

The  two  older  boys,  who  had  served  their  time  in  the  army,  lay 
out  on  the  grass  before  the  house,  and  whittled  and  talked  desul- 
torily about  the  war  and  the  crops,  and  planned  buying  a  threshing- 
machine.  The  older  girls  and  Mrs.  Smith  helped  enlarge  the  table 
and  put  on  the  dishes,  talking  all  the  time  in  that  cheery,  incoher- 
ent, and  meaningful  way  a  group  of  such  women  have, — a  conver- 
sation to  be  taken  for  its  spirit  rather  than  for  its  letter,  though 
Mrs.  Gray  at  last  got  the  ear  of  them  all  and  dissertated  at  length 
on  girls. 


The  Return  of  a  Private  123 

"Girls  in  love  ain'  no  use  in  the  whole  blessed  week,"  she  said. 
"Sundays  they're  a-lookin'  down  the  road,  expectin'  he'll  come. 
Sunday  afternoons  they  can't  think  o'  nothin'  else,  'cause  he's  here. 
Monday  mornin's  they're  sleepy  and  kind  o'  dreamy  and  slimpsy, 
and  good  f  r  nothin'  on  Tuesday  and  Wednesday.  Thursday  they 
git  absent-minded,  an'  begin  to  look  off  toward  Sunday  agin,  an' 
mope  aroun'  and  let  the  dishwater  git  cold,  right  under  their  noses. 
Friday  they  break  dishes,  an'  go  off  in  the  best  room  an'  snivel,  an' 
look  out  o'  the  winder.  Saturdays  they  have  queer  spurts  o'  workin' 
like  all  p'ssessed,  an'  spurts  o'  frizzin'  their  hair.  An'  Sunday  they 
begin  it  all  over  agin." 

The  girls  giggled  and  blushed,  all  through  this  tirade  from  their 
mother,  their  broad  faces  and  powerful  frames  anything  but  sug- 
gestive of  lackadaisical  sentiment.  But  Mrs.  Smith  said : 

"Now,  Mrs.  Gray,  I  hadn't  ought  to  stay  to  dinner.  You've 
got " 

"Now  you  set  right  down!  If  any  of  them  girls'  beaus  comes, 
they'll  have  to  take  what's  left,  that's  all.  They  ain't  s'posed  to 
have  much  appetite,  nohow.  No,  you're  goin'  to  stay  if  they  starve, 
an'  they  ain't  no  danger  o'  that." 

At  one  o'clock  the  long  table  was  piled  with  boiled  potatoes, 
cords  of  boiled  corn  on  the  cob,  squash  and  pumpkin  pies,  hot  bis- 
cuit, sweet  pickles,  bread  and  butter,  and  honey.  Then  one  of  the 
girls  took  down  a  conch-shell  from  a  nail,  and  going  to  the  door, 
blew  a  long,  fine,  free  blast,  that  showed  there  was  no  weakness  of 
lungs  in  her  ample  chest. 

Then  the  children  came  out  of  the  forest  of  corn,  out  of  the 
creek,  out  of  the  loft  of  the  barn,  and  out  of  the  garden. 

"They  come  to  their  feed  f'r  all  the  world  jest  like  the  pigs  when 
y'  holler  'poo-ee!'  See  'em  scoot!"  laughed  Mrs.  Gray,  every  wrinkle 
on  her  face  shining  with  delight. 

The  men  shut  up  their  jack-knives,  and  surrounded  the  horse- 
trough  to  souse  their  faces  in  the  cold,  hard  water,  and  in  a  few 
moments  the  table  was  filled  with  a  merry  crowd,  and  a  row  of 
wistful-eyed  youngsters  circled  the  kitchen  wall,  where  they  stood 
first  on  one  leg  and  then  on  the  other,  in  impatient  hunger. 


124  Main-Travelled  Roads 

"Now  pitch  in,  Mrs.  Smith,"  said  Mrs.  Gray,  presiding  over 
the  table.  "You  know  these  men  critters.  They'll  eat  every  grain 
of  it,  if  yeh  give  'em  a  chance.  I  swan,  they're  made  o'  India-rub- 
ber, their  stomachs  is,  I  know  it." 

"Haf  to  eat  to  work,"  said  Bill,  gnawing  a  cob  with  a  swift, 
circular  motion  that  rivalled  a  corn-sheller  in  results. 

"More  like  workin'  to  eat,"  put  in  one  of  the  girls,  with  a  giggle. 
"More  eat  'n  work  with  you." 

"Yow  needn't  say  anything,  Net.  Any  one  that'll  eat  seven 
ears " 

"I  didn't,  no  such  thing.  You  piled  your  cobs  on  my  plate." 

"That'll  do  to  tell  Ed  Varney.  It  won't  go  down  here  where  we 
know  yeh." 

"Good  land!  Eat  all  yeh  want!  They's  plenty  more  in  the  fiel's, 
but  I  can't  afford  to  give  you  young  uns  tea.  The  tea  is  for  us 
women-folks,  and  'specially  f'r  Mis'  Smith  an'  Bill's  wife.  We're 
a-goin'  to  tell  fortunes  by  it." 

One  by  one  the  men  filled  up  and  shoved  back,  and  one  by  one 
the  children  slipped  into  their  places,  and  by  two  o'clock  the  women 
alone  remained  around  the  debris-covered  table,  sipping  their  tea 
and  telling  fortunes. 

As  they  got  well  down  to  the  grounds  in  the  cup,  they  shook 
them  with  a  circular  motion  in  the  hand,  and  then  turned  them 
bottom-side-up  quickly  in  the  saucer,  then  twirled  them  three  or 
four  times  one  way,  and  three  or  four  times  the  other,  during  a 
breathless  pause.  Then  Mrs.  Gray  lifted  the  cup,  and,  gazing  into 
it  with  profound  gravity,  pronounced  the  impending  fate. 

It  must  be  admitted  that,  to  a  critical  observer,  she  had  abundant 
preparation  for  hitting  close  to  the  mark,  as  when  she  told  the  girls 
that  "somebody  was  comin'."  "It's  a  man,"  she  went  on  gravely. 
"He  is  cross-eyed " 

"Oh,  you  hush!"  cried  Nettie. 

"He  has  red  hair,  and  is  death  on  b'iled  corn  and  hot  biscuit." 

The  others  shrieked  with  delight. 

"But  he's  goin'  to  get  the  mitten,  that  red-headed  feller  is,  for  I 
see  another  feller  comin'  up  behind  him." 


The  Return  of  a  Private  125 

"Oh,  lemme  see,  lemme  see!"  cried  Nettie. 

"Keep  off,"  said  the  priestess,  with  a  lofty  gesture.  "His  hair  is 
black.  He  don't  eat  so  much,  and  he  works  more." 

The  girls  exploded  in  a  shriek  of  laughter,  and  pounded  their 
sister  on  the  back. 

At  last  came  Mrs.  Smith's  turn,  and  she  was  trembling  with 
excitement  as  Mrs.  Gray  again  composed  her  jolly  face  to  what  she 
considered  a  proper  solemnity  of  expression. 

"Somebody  is  comin'  to  you"  she  said,  after  a  long  pause.  "He's 
got  a  musket  on  his  back.  He's  a  soldier.  He's  almost  here.  See?" 

She  pointed  at  two  little  tea-stems,  which  really  formed  a  faint 
suggestion  of  a  man  with  a  musket  on  his  back.  He  had  climbed 
nearly  to  the  edge  of  the  cup.  Mrs.  Smith  grew  pale  with  excite- 
ment. She  trembled  so  she  could  hardly  hold  the  cup  in  her  hand  as 
she  gazed  into  it. 

"It's  Ed,"  cried  the  old  woman.  "He's  on  the  way  home.  Heav- 
ens an'  earth!  There  he  is  now!"  She  turned  and  waved  her  hand 
out  toward  the  road.  They  rushed  to  the  door  to  look  where  she 
pointed. 

A  man  in  a  blue  coat,  with  a  musket  on  his  back,  was  toiling 
slowly  up  the  hill  on  the  sun-bright,  dusty  road,  toiling  slowly,  with 
bent  head  half  hidden  by  a  heavy  knapsack.  So  tired  it  seemed  that 
walking  was  indeed  a  process  of  falling.  So  eager  to  get  home  he 
would  not  stop,  would  not  look  aside,  but  plodded  on,  amid  the 
cries  of  the  locusts,  the  welcome  of  the  crickets,  and  the  rustle  of 
the  yellow  wheat.  Getting  back  to  God's  country,  and  his  wife  and 
babies! 

Laughing,  crying,  trying  to  call  him  and  the  children  at  the 
same  time,  the  little  wife,  almost  hysterical,  snatched  her  hat  and 
ran  out  into  the  yard.  But  the  soldier  had  disappeared  over  the  hill 
into  the  hollow  beyond,  and,  by  the  time  she  had  found  the  chil- 
dren, he  was  too  far  away  for  her  voice  to  reach  him.  And,  besides, 
she  was  not  sure  it  was  her  husband,  for  he  had  not  turned  his  head 
at  their  shouts.  This  seemed  so  strange.  Why  didn't  he  stop  to  rest 
at  his  old  neighbor's  house  ?  Tortured  by  hope  and  doubt,  she  hur- 
ried up  the  coolly  as  fast  as  she  could  push  the  baby  wagon,  the 


126  Main-Travelled  Roads 

blue-coated  figure  just  ahead  pushing  steadily,  silently  forward  up 
the  coolly. 

When  the  excited,  panting  little  group  came  in  sight  of  the  gate 
they  saw  the  blue-coated  figure  standing,  leaning  upon  the  rough 
rail  fence,  his  chin  on  his  palms,  gazing  at  the  empty  house.  His 
knapsack,  canteen,  blankets,  and  musket  lay  upon  the  dusty  grass 
at  his  feet. 

He  was  like  a  man  lost  in  a  dream.  His  wide,  hungry  eyes  de- 
voured the  scene.  The  rough  lawn,  the  little  unpainted  house,  the 
field  of  clear  yellow  wheat  behind  it,  down  across  which  streamed 
the  sun,  now  almost  ready  to  touch  the  high  hill  to  the  west,  the 
crickets  crying  merrily,  a  cat  on  the  fence  near  by,  dreaming,  un- 
mindful of  the  stranger  in  blue 

How  peaceful  it  all  was.  O  God!  How  far  removed  from  all 
camps,  hospitals,  battle  lines.  A  little  cabin  in  a  Wisconsin  coolly, 
but  it  was  majestic  in  its  peace.  How  did  he  ever  leave  it  for  those 
years  of  tramping,  thirsting,  killing? 

Trembling,  weak  with  emotion,  her  eyes  on  the  silent  figure, 
Mrs.  Smith  hurried  up  to  the  fence.  Her  feet  made  no  noise  in  the 
dust  and  grass,  and  they  were  close  upon  him  before  he  knew  of 
them.  The  oldest  boy  ran  a  little  ahead.  He  will  never  forget  that 
figure,  that  face.  It  will  always  remain  as  something  epic,  that  re- 
turn of  the  private.  He  fixed  his  eyes  on  the  pale  face  covered  with 
a  ragged  beard. 

"Who  are  you,  sir?"  asked  the  wife,  or,  rather,  started  to  ask, 
for  he  turned,  stood  a  moment,  and  then  cried: 

"Emma!" 

"Edward!" 

The  children  stood  in  a  curious  row  to  see  their  mother  kiss  this 
bearded,  strange  man,  the  elder  girl  sobbing  sympathetically  with 
her  mother.  Illness  had  left  the  soldier  partly  deaf,  and  this  added 
to  the  strangeness  of  his  manner. 

But  the  youngest  child  stood  away,  even  after  the  girl  had  recog- 
nized her  father  and  kissed  him.  The  man  turned  then  to  the  baby, 
and  said  in  a  curiously  unpaternal  tone : 


The  Return  of  a  Private  127 

"Come  here,  my  little  man;  don't  you  know  me?"  But  the  baby 
backed  away  under  the  fence  and  stood  peering  at  him  critically. 

"My  little  man!"  What  meaning  in  those  words!  This  baby 
seemed  like  some  other  woman's  child,  and  not  the  infant  he  had 
left  in  his  wife's  arms.  The  war  had  come  between  him  and  his 
baby — he  was  only  a  strange  man  to  him,  with  big  eyes ;  a  soldier, 
with  mother  hanging  to  his  arm,  and  talking  in  a  loud  voice. 

"And  this  is  Tom,"  the  private  said,  drawing  the  oldest  boy  to 
him.  "Hell  come  and  see  me.  He  knows  his  poor  old  pap  when  he 
comes  home  from  the  war." 

The  mother  heard  the  pain  and  reproach  in  his  voice  and  has- 
tened to  apologize. 

"You've  changed  so,  Ed.  He  can't  know  yeh.  This  is  papa, 
Teddy;  come  and  kiss  him — Tom  and  Mary  do.  Come,  won't 
you  ?"  But  Teddy  still  peered  through  the  fence  with  solemn  eyes, 
well  out  of  reach.  He  resembled  a  half-wild  kitten  that  hesitates, 
studying  the  tones  of  one's  voice. 

"I'll  fix  him,"  said  the  soldier,  and  sat  down  to  undo  his  knap- 
sack, out  of  which  he  drew  three  enormous  and  very  red  apples. 
After  giving  one  to  each  of  the  older  children,  he  said : 

"Now  I  guess  he'll  come.  Eh,  my  little  man?  Now  come  see  your 


pap." 


Teddy  crept  slowly  under  the  fence,  assisted  by  the  overzealous 
Tommy,  and  a  moment  later  was  kicking  and  squalling  in  his 
father's  arms.  Then  they  entered  the  house,  into  the  sitting  room, 
poor,  bare,  art-forsaken  little  room,  too,  with  its  rag  carpet,  its 
square  clock,  and  its  two  or  three  chromos  and  pictures  from 
Harper's  Weekly  pinned  about. 

"Emma,  I'm  all  tired  out,"  said  Private  Smith,  as  he  flung  him- 
self down  on  the  carpet  as  he  used  to  do,  while  his  wife  brought  a 
pillow  to  put  under  his  head,  and  the  children  stood  about  munch- 
ing their  apples. 

"Tommy,  you  run  and  get  me  a  pan  of  chips,  and  Mary,  you  get 
the  tea-kettle  on,  and  I'll  go  and  make  some  biscuit." 

And  the  soldier  talked.  Question  after  question  he  poured  forth 
about  the  crops,  the  cattle,  the  renter,  the  neighbors.  He  slipped 


ia8  Main-Travelled  Roads 

his  heavy  government  brogan  shoes  off  his  poor,  tired,  blistered 
feet,  and  lay  out  with  utter,  sweet  relaxation.  He  was  a  free  man 
again,  no  longer  a  soldier  under  a  command.  At  supper  he  stopped 
once,  listened  and  smiled.  "That's  old  Spot.  I  know  her  voice.  I 
s'pose  that's  her  calf  out  there  in  the  pen.  I  can't  milk  her  to-night, 
though.  I'm  too  tired.  But  I  tell  you,  I'd  like  a  drink  of  her  milk. 
What's  become  of  old  Rove?" 

"He  died  last  winter.  Poisoned,  I  guess."  There  was  a  moment 
of  sadness  for  them  all.  It  was  some  time  before  the  husband  spoke 
again,  in  a  voice  that  trembled  a  little. 

"Poor  old  feller!  He'd  'a'  known  me  half  a  mile  away.  I  expected 
him  to  come  down  the  hill  to  meet  me.  It  'ud  'a'  been  more  like 
comin'  home  if  I  could  'a'  seen  him  comin'  down  the  road  an'  wag- 
gin'  his  tail,  an'  laughin'  that  way  he  has.  I  tell  yeh,  it  kind  o'  took 
hold  o'  me  to  see  the  blinds  down  an'  the  house  shut  up." 

"But,  yeh  see,  we — we  expected  you'd  write  again  'fore  you 
started.  And  then  we  thought  we'd  see  you  if  you  did  come,"  she 
hastened  to  explain. 

"Well,  I  ain't  worth  a  cent  on  writin'.  Besides,  it's  just  as  well 
yeh  didn't  know  when  I  was  comin'.  I  tell  you,  it  sounds  good  to 
hear  them  chickens  out  there,  an'  turkeys,  an'  the  crickets.  Do  you 
know  they  don't  have  just  the  same  kind  o'  crickets  down  South? 
Who's  Sam  hired  t'  help  cut  yer  grain  ?" 

"The  Ramsey  boys." 

"Looks  like  a  good  crop ;  but  I'm  afraid  I  won't  do  much  gettin' 
it  cut.  This  cussed  fever  an'  ague  has  got  me  down  pretty  low.  I 
don't  know  when  I'll  get  rid  of  it.  I'll  bet  I've  took  twenty-five 
pounds  of  quinine  if  I've  taken  a  bit.  Gimme  another  biscuit.  I 

tell  yeh,  they  taste  good,  Emma.  I  ain't  had  anything  like  it 

Say,  if  you'd  'a'  hear'd  me  braggin'  to  th'  boys  about  your  butter  'n' 
biscuits  I'll  bet  your  ears  'ud  'a'  burnt.' 

The  private's  wife  colored  with  pleasure.  "Oh,  you're  always 
a-braggin'  about  your  things.  Everybody  makes  good  butter." 

"Yes ;  old  lady  Snyder,  for  instance." 

"Oh,  well,  she  ain't  to  be  mentioned.  She's  Dutch." 

"Or  old  Mis'  Snively.  One  more  cup  o'  tea,  Mary.  That's  my 


The  Return  of  a  Private  129 

girl!  I'm  feeling  better  already.  I  just  b'lieve  the  matter  with  me  is, 
I'm  starved" 

This  was  a  delicious  hour,  one  long  to  be  remembered.  They 
were  like  lovers  again.  But  their  tenderness,  like  that  of  a  typical 
American  family,  found  utterance  in  tones,  rather  than  in  words. 
He  was  praising  her  when  praising  her  biscuit,  and  she  knew  it. 
They  grew  soberer  when  he  showed  where  he  had  been  struck,  one 
ball  burning  the  back  of  his  hand,  one  cutting  away  a  lock  of  hair 
from  his  temple,  and  one  passing  through  the  calf  of  his  leg.  The 
wife  shuddered  to  think  how  near  she  had  come  to  being  a  soldier's 
widow.  Her  waiting  no  longer  seemed  hard.  This  sweet,  glorious 
hour  effaced  it  all. 

Then  they  rose,  and  all  went  out  into  the  garden  and  down  to 
the  barn.  He  stood  beside  her  while  she  milked  old  Spot.  They 
began  to  plan  fields  and  crops  for  next  year. 

His  farm  was  weedy  and  encumbered,  a  rascally  renter  had  run 
away  with  his  machinery  (departing  between  two  days),  his  chil- 
dren needed  clothing,  the  years  were  coming  upon  him,  he  was  sick 
and  emaciated,  but  his  heroic  soul  did  not  quail.  With  the  same 
courage  with  which  he  had  faced  his  Southern  march  he  entered 
upon  a  still  more  hazardous  future. 

Oh,  that  mystic  hour!  The  pale  man  with  big  eyes  standing 
there  by  the  well,  with  his  young  wife  by  his  side.  The  vast  moon 
swinging  above  the  eastern  peaks,  the  cattle  winding  down  the  pas- 
ture slopes  with  jangling  bells,  the  crickets  singing,  the  stars  bloom- 
ing out  sweet  and  far  and  serene;  the  katydids  rhythmically  call- 
ing, the  little  turkeys  crying  querulously,  as  they  settled  to  roost  in 
the  poplar  tree  near  the  open  gate.  The  voices  at  the  well  drop 
lower,  the  little  ones  nestle  in  their  father's  arms  at  last,  and  Teddy 
falls  asleep  there. 

The  common  soldier  of  the  American  volunteer  army  had  re- 
turned. His  war  with  the  South  was  over,  and  his  fight,  his  daily 
running  fight  with  nature  and  against  the  injustice  of  his  fellow- 
men,  was  begun  again. 


UNDER  THE  LION'S  PAW 

IT  was  the  last  of  autumn  and  first  day  of  winter  coming  to- 
gether. All  day  long  the  ploughmen  on  their  prairie  farms  had 
moved  to  and  fro  in  their  wide  level  fields  through  the  falling 
snow,  which  melted  as  it  fell,  wetting  them  to  the  skin — all  day, 
notwithstanding  the  frequent  squalls  of  snow,  the  dripping,  desolate 
clouds,  and  the  muck  of  the  furrows,  black  and  tenacious  as  tar. 

Under  their  dripping  harness  the  horses  swung  to  and  fro  silently, 
with  that  marvellous  uncomplaining  patience  which  marks  the 
horse.  All  day  the  wild  geese,  honking  wildly,  as  they  sprawled  side- 
wise  down  the  wind,  seemed  to  be  fleeing  from  an  enemy  behind, 
and  with  neck  outthrust  and  wings  extended,  sailed  down  the  wind, 
soon  lost  to  sight. 

Yet  the  ploughman  behind  his  plough,  though  the  snow  lay  on 
his  ragged  great-coat,  and  the  cold  clinging  mud  rose  on  his  heavy 
boots,  fettering  him  like  gyves,  whistled  in  the  very  beard  of  the 
gale.  As  day  passed,  the  snow,  ceasing  to  melt,  lay  along  the 
ploughed  land,  and  lodged  in  the  depth  of  the  stubble,  till  on  each 
slow  round  the  last  furrow  stood  out  black  and  shining  as  jet 
between  the  ploughed  land  and  the  gray  stubble. 

When  night  began  to  fall,  and  the  geese,  flying  low,  began  to 
alight  invisibly  in  the  near  corn-field,  Stephen  Council  was  still  at 
work  "finishing  a  land."  He  rode  on  his  sulky  plough  when  going 
with  the  wind,  but  walked  when  facing  it.  Sitting  bent  and  cold 
but  cheery  under  his  slouch  hat,  he  talked  encouragingly  to  his 
four-in-hand. 

"Come  round  there,  boys! — Round  agin!  We  got  t'  finish  this 
land.  Come  in  there,  Dan !  Stiddy,  Kate, — stiddy !  None  o'  y'r  tan- 
trums, Kittie.  It's  purty  tuff,  but  got  a  be  did.  Tchkl  tchk\  Step 
along,  Pete!  Don't  let  Kate  git  y'r  single-tree  on  the  wheel.  Once 


130 


Under  the  Lion's  Paw  131 

They  seemed  to  know  what  he  meant,  and  that  this  was  the  last 
round,  for  they  worked  with  greater  vigor  than  before. 

"Once  more,  boys,  an'  then,  sez  I,  oats  an'  a  nice  warm  stall,  an* 
sleep  f  r  all." 

By  the  time  the  last  furrow  was  turned  on  the  land  it  was  too 
dark  to  see  the  house,  and  the  snow  was  changing  to  rain  again.  The 
tired  and  hungry  man  could  see  the  light  from  the  kitchen  shining 
through  the  leafless  hedge,  and  he  lifted  a  great  shout,  "Supper  f'r 
a  half  a  dozen !" 

It  was  nearly  eight  o'clock  by  the  time  he  had  finished  his  chores 
and  started  for  supper.  He  was  picking  his  way  carefully  through 
the  mud,  when  the  tall  form  of  a  man  loomed  up  before  him  with 
a  premonitory  cough. 

"Waddy  ye  want?"  was  the  rather  startled  question  of  the 
farmer. 

"Well,  ye  see,"  began  the  stranger,  in  a  deprecating  tone,  "we'd 
like  t'  git  in  f'r  the  night.  We've  tried  every  house  f'r  the  last  two 
miles,  but  they  hadn't  any  room  f'r  us.  My  wife's  jest  about  sick, 
V  the  children  are  cold  and  hungry " 

"Oh,  y'  want  'o  stay  all  night,  eh  ?" 

"Yes,  sir;  it  'ud  be  a  great  accom " 

"Waal,  I  don't  make  it  a  practice  t'  turn  anybuddy  way  hungry, 
not  on  sech  nights  as  this.  Drive  right  in.  We  ain't  got  much,  but 
sech  as  it  is " 

But  the  stranger  had  disappeared.  And  soon  his  steaming,  weary 
team,  with  drooping  heads  and  swinging  single-trees,  moved  past 
the  well  to  the  block  beside  the  path.  Council  stood  at  the  side  of 
the  "schooner"  and  helped  the  children  out — two  little  half-sleep- 
ing children — and  then  a  small  woman  with  a  babe  in  her  arms. 

"There  ye  go!"  he  shouted  jovially,  to  the  children.  "Now  we're 
all  right !  Run  right  along  to  the  house  there,  an'  tell  Mam'  Coun- 
cil you  wants  sumpthin'  t'  eat.  Right  this  way,  Mis'^-keep  right  off 
t'  the  right  there.  I'll  go  an'  git  a  lantern.  Come,"  he  said  to  the 
dazed  and  silent  group  at  his  side. 

"Mother,"  he  shouted,  as  he  neared  the  fragrant  and  warmly 
lighted  kitchen,  "here  are  some  wayfarers  an'  folks  who  need 


132  Main-Travelled  Roads 

sumpthin'  t'  eat  an'  a  place  t'  snooze."  He  ended  by  pushing  them 
all  in. 

Mrs.  Council,  a  large,  jolly,  rather  coarse-looking  woman,  took 
the  children  in  her  arms.  "Come  right  in,  you  little  rabbits.  'Most 
asleep,  hey  ?  Now  here's  a  drink  o'  milk  f ' r  each  o'  ye.  I'll  have  s'm 
tea  in  a  minute.  Take  off  y'r  things  and  set  up  t'  the  fire." 

While  she  set  the  children  to  drinking  milk,  Council  got  out  his 
lantern  and  went  out  to  the  barn  to  help  the  stranger  about  his 
team,  where  his  loud,  hearty  voice  could  be  heard  as  it  came  and 
went  between  the  haymow  and  the  stalls. 

The  woman  came  to  light  as  a  small,  timid,  and  discouraged- 
looking  woman,  but  still  pretty,  in  a  thin  and  sorrowful  way. 

"Land  sakes!  An'  you've  travelled  all  the  way  from  Clear  Lake 
t'-day  in  this  mud !  Waal !  waal !  No  wonder  you're  all  tired  out. 

Don't  wait  f'r  the  men,  Mis' "  She  hesitated,  waiting  for 

the  name. 

"Raskins." 

"Mis'  Haskins,  set  right  up  to  the  table  an*  take  a  good  swig  o' 
tea  whilst  I  make  y'  s'm  toast.  It's  green  tea,  an'  it's  good.  I  tell 
Council  as  I  git  older  I  don't  seem  to  enjoy  Young  Hyson  n'r  Gun- 
powder. I  want  the  reel  green  tea,  jest  as  it  comes  off'n  the  vines. 
Seems  t'  have  more  heart  in  it,  some  way.  Don't  s'pose  it  has.  Coun- 
cil says  it's  all  in  m'  eye." 

Going  on  in  this  easy  way,  she  soon  had  the  children  filled  with 
bread  and  milk  and  the  woman  thoroughly  at  home,  eating  some 
toast  and  sweet-melon  pickles,  and  sipping  the  tea. 

"See  the  little  rats!"  she  laughed  at  the  children.  "They're  full 
as  they  can  stick  now,  and  they  want  to  go  to  bed.  Now,  don't  git 
up,  Mis'  Haskins;  set  right  where  you  are  an'  let  me  look  after 
'em.  I  know  all  about  young  ones,  though  I'm  all  alone  now.  Jane 
went  an'  married  last  fall.  But,  as  I  tell  Council,  it's  lucky  we  keep 
our  health.  Set  right  there,  Mis'  Haskins;  I  won't  have  you  stir  a 
finger." 

It  was  an  unmeasured  pleasure  to  sit  there  in  the  warm,  homely 
kitchen,  the  jovial  chatter  of  the  housewife  driving  out  and  holding 
at  bay  the  growl  of  the  impotent,  cheated  wini. 


Under  the  Lion's  Paw  133 

The  little  woman's  eyes  filled  with  tears  which  fell  down  upon 
the  sleeping  baby  in  her  arms.  The  world  was  not  so  desolate  and 
cold  and  hopeless,  after  all. 

"Now  I  hope.  Council  won't  stop  out  there  and  talk  politics  all 
night.  He's  the  greatest  man  to  talk  politics  an'  read  the  Tribune 
—How  old  is  it?" 

She  broke  off  and  peered  down  at  the  face  of  the  babe. 

"Two  months  'n'  five  days,"  said  the  mother,  with  a  mother's 
exactness. 

"Ye  don't  say!  I  want  'o  know!  The  dear  little  pudzy-wudzy!" 
she  went  on,  stirring  it  up  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  ribs  with  her 
fat  forefinger. 

"Pooty  tough  on  'oo  to  go  gallivant'n'  'cross  lots  this  way " 

"Yes,  that's  so;  a  man  can't  lift  a  mountain,"  said  Council,  en- 
tering the  door.  "Mother,  this  is  Mr.  Haskins,  from  Kansas.  He's 
been  eat  up  'n'  drove  out  by  grasshoppers." 

"Glad  t'  see  yeh! — Pa,  empty  that  wash-basin  'n'  give  him  a 
chance  t'  wash." 

Haskins  was  a  tall  man,  with  a  thin,  gloomy  face.  His  hair  was  a 
reddish  brown,  like  his  coat,  and  seemed  equally  faded  by  the  wind 
and  sun,  and  his  sallow  face,  though  hard  and  set,  was  pathetic 
somehow.  You  would  have  felt  that  he  had  suffered  much  by  the 
line  of  his  mouth  showing  under  his  thin,  yellow  mustache. 

"Hain't  Ike  got  home  yet,  Sairy?" 

"Hain't  seen  'im." 

"W-a-a-1,  set  right  up,  Mr.  Haskins;  wade  right  into  what  we've 
got ;  'taint  much,  but  we  manage  to  live  on  it — she  gits  fat  on  it," 
laughed  Council,  pointing  his  thumb  at  his  wife. 

After  supper,  while  the  women  put  the  children  to  bed,  Haskins 
and  Council  talked  on,  seated  near  the  huge  cooking-stove,  the 
steam  rising  from  their  wet  clothing.  In  the  Western  fashion  Coun- 
cil told  as  much  of  his  own  life  as  he  drew  from  his  guest.  He  asked 
but  few  questions,  but  by  and  by  the  story  of  Haskins'  struggles 
and  defeat  came  out.  The  story  was  a  terrible  one,  but  he  told  it 
quietly,  seated  with  his  elbows  on  his  knees,  gazing  most  of  the 
time  at  the  hearth. 


134  Main-Travelled  Roads 

"I  didn't  like  the  looks  of  the  country,  anyhow,"  Haskins  said, 
partly  rising  and  glancing  at  his  wife.  "I  was  ust  t'  northern  In- 
gyannie,  where  we  have  lots  o'  timber  'n'  lots  o'  rain,  'n'  I  didn't 
like  the  looks  o'  that  dry  prairie.  What  galled  me  the  worst  was 
goin'  s'  far  away  acrosst  so  much  fine  land  layin'  all  through  here 
vacant." 

"And  the  'hoppers  eat  ye  four  years,  hand  runnin',  did  they?" 

"Eat!  They  wiped  us  out.  They  chawed  everything  that  was 
green.  They  jest  set  around  waitin'  f'r  us  to  die  t'  eat  us,  too.  My 
God!  I  ust  t'  dream  of  'em  sittin'  'round  on  the  bedpost,  six  feet 
long,  workin'  their  jaws.  They  eet  the  fork-handles.  They  got 
worse  'n'  worse  till  they  jest  rolled  on  one  another,  piled  up  like 
snow  in  winter.  Well,  it  ain't  no  use.  If  I  was  t'  talk  all  winter  I 
couldn't  tell  nawthin'.  But  all  the  while  I  couldn't  help  thinkin' 
of  all  that  land  back  here  that  nobuddy  was  usin'  that  I  ought  'o 
had  'stead  o'  bein'  out  there  in  that  cussed  country." 

"Waal,  why  didn't  ye  stop  an'  settle  here?"  asked  Ike,  who  had 
come  in  and  was  eating  his  supper. 

"Fer  the  simple  reason  that  you  fellers  wantid  ten  'r  fifteen  dol- 
lars an  acre  fer  the  bare  land,  and  I  hadn't  no  money  fer  that  kind 
o'  thing." 

"Yes,  I  do  my  own  work,"  Mrs.  Council  was  heard  to  say  in 
the  pause  which  followed.  "I'm  a  gettin'  purty  heavy  t'  be  on 
m'  laigs  all  day,  but  we  can't  afford  t'  hire,  so  I  keep  rackin'  around 
somehow,  like  a  foundered  horse.  S'  lame — I  tell  Council  he 
can't  tell  how  lame  I  am,  f'r  I'm  jest  as  lame  in  one  laig  as  t'  other." 
And  the  good  soul  laughed  at  the  joke  on  herself  as  she  took  a 
handful  of  flour  and  dusted  the  biscuit-board  to  keep  the  dough 
from  sticking. 

"Well,  I  hain't  never  been  very  strong,"  said  Mrs.  Haskins. 
"Our  folks  was  Canadians  an'  small-boned,  and  then  since  my  last 
child  I  hain't  got  up  again  fairly.  I  don't  like  t'  complain.  Tim 
has  about  all  he  can  bear  now — but  they  was  days  this  week  when 
I  jest  wanted  to  lay  right  down  an'  die." 

"Waal,  now,  I'll  tell  ye,"  said  Council,  from  his  side  of  the  stove, 
silencing  everybody  with  his  good-natured  roar,  "I'd  go  down  and 


Under  the  Lion's  Paw  135 

see  Butler,  anyway,  if  I  was  you.  I  guess  he'd  let  you  have  his  place 
purty  cheap;  the  farm's  all  run  down.  He's  ben  anxious  t'  let  t' 
somebuddy  next  year.  It  'ud  be  a  good  chance  fer  you.  Anyhow, 
you  go  to  bed  and  sleep  like  a  babe.  I've  got  some  ploughing  t'  do, 
anyhow,  an'  we'll  see  if  somethin'  can't  be  done  about  your  case. 
Ike,  you  go  out  an'  see  if  the  horses  is  all  right,  an'  I'll  show  the 
folks  t'  bed." 

When  the  tired  husband  and  wife  were  lying  under  the  generous 
quilts  of  the  spare  bed,  Haskins  listened  a  moment  to  the  wind  in 
the  eaves,  and  then  said,  with  a  slow  and  solemn  tone, 

"There  are  people  in  this  world  who  are  good  enough  t'  be 
angels,  an'  only  haff  t'  die  to  be  angels." 

II 

Jim  Butler  was  one  of  those  men  called  in  the  West  "land 
poor."  Early  in  the  history  of  Rock  River  he  had  come  into  the 
town  and  started  in  the  grocery  business  in  a  small  way,  occupying 
a  small  building  in  a  mean  part  of  the  town.  At  this  period  of  his 
life  he  earned  all  he  got,  and  was  up  early  and  late  sorting  beans, 
working  over  butter,  and  carting  his  goods  to  and  from  the  st 
tion.  But  a  change  came  over  him  at  the  end  of  the  second  year, 
when  he  sold  a  lot  of  land  for  four  times  what  he  paid  for  it.  From 
that  time  forward  he  believed  in  land  speculation  as  the  surest  way 
of  getting  rich.  Every  cent  he  could  save  or  spare  from  his  trade 
he  put  into  land  at  forced  sale,  or  mortgages  on  land,  which  were 
"just  as  good  as  the  wheat,"  he  was  accustomed  to  say. 

Farm  after  farm  fell  into  his  hands,  until  he  was  recognized  as 
one  of  the  leading  landowners  of  the  county.  His  mortgages  were 
scattered  all  over  Cedar  County,  and  as  they  slowly  but  surely  fell 
in  he  sought  usually  to  retain  the  former  owner  as  tenant. 

He  was  not  ready  to  foreclose ;  indeed,  he  had  the  name  of  being 
one  o/  *k  ''easiest"  men  in  the  town.  He  let  the  debtor  off  again 
and  again,  extending  the  time  whenever  possible. 

"I  don't  want  y'r  land,"  he  said.  "All  I'm  after  is  the  int'rest  on 
my  money — that's  all.  Now,  if  y'  want  'o  stav  on  the  farm,  why, 


136  Main-Travelled  Roads 

I'll  give  y'  a  good  chance.  I  can't  have  the  land  layin'  vacant."  And 
in  many  cases  the  owner  remained  as  tenant. 

In  the  meantime  he  had  sold  his  store ;  he  couldn't  spend  time  in 
it ;  he  was  mainly  occupied  now  with  sitting  around  town  on  rainy 
days  smoking  and  "gassin'  with  the  boys,"  or  in  riding  to  and  from 
his  farms.  In  fishing-time  he  fished  a  good  deal.  Doc  Grimes,  Ben 
Ashley,  and  Cal  Cheatham  were  his  cronies  on  these  fishing  excur- 
sions or  hunting  trips  in  the  time  of  chickens  or  partridges.  In  win- 
ter they  went  to  Northern  Wisconsin  to  shoot  deer. 

In  spite  of  all  these  signs  of  easy  life  Butler  persisted  in  saying 
he  "hadn't  enough  money  to  pay  taxes  on  his  land,"  and  was  careful 
to  convey  the  impression  that  he  was  poor  in  spite  of  his  twenty 
farms.  At  one  time  he  was  said  to  be  worth  fifty  thousand  dollars, 
but  land  had  been  a  little  slow  of  sale  of  late,  so  that  he  was  not 
worth  so  much. 

A  fine  farm,  known  as  the  Higley  place,  had  fallen  into  his  hands 
in  the  usual  way  the  previous  year,  and  he  had  not  been  able  to  find 
a  tenant  for  it.  Poor  Higley,  after  working  himself  nearly  to  death 
on  it  in  the  attempt  to  lift  the  mortgage,  had  gone  off  to  Dakota, 
leaving  the  farm  and  his  curse  to  Butler. 

This  was  the  farm  which  Council  advised  Haskins  to  apply  for ; 
and  the  next  day  Council  hitched  up  his  team  and  drove  down  to 
see  Butler. 

"You  jest  let  me  do  the  talkin',"  he  said.  "We'll  find  him  wearin' 
out  his  pants  on  some  salt  barrel  somew'ers ;  and  if  he  thought  you 
wanted  a  place  he'd  sock  it  to  you  hot  and  heavy.  You  jest  keep 
quiet;  I'll  fix  'im." 

Butler  was  seated  in  Ben  Ashley's  store  telling  fish  yarns  when 
Council  sauntered  in  casually. 

"Hello,  But;  lyin'  agin,  hey?" 

"Hello,  Steve!  How  goes  it?" 

"Oh,  so-so.  Too  dang  much  rain  these  days.  I  thought  it  was 
goin'  t'  freeze  up  f'r  good  last  night.  Tight  squeak  if  I  get  m' 
ploughin'  done.  How's  farmin'  with  you  these  days?" 

"Bad.  Ploughin'  ain't  half  done." 


Under  the  Lion's  Paw  137 

"It  'ud  be  a  religious  idee  f'r  you  t'  go  out  an'  take  a  hand 
y'rself." 

"I  don't  haff  to,"  said  Butler,  with  a  wink. 

"Got  anybody  on  the  Higley  place?" 

"No.  Know  of  anybody?" 

"Waal,  no;  not  eggsackly.  I've  got  a  relation  back  t'  Michigan 
who's  ben  hot  an'  cold  on  the  idee  o'  comin'  West  f  r  some  time. 
Might  come  if  he  could  get  a  good  lay-out.  What  do  you  talk  on 
the  farm?" 

"Well,  I  d'  know.  I'll  rent  it  on  shares  or  I'll  rent  it  money 
rent." 

"Waal,  how  much  money,  say?" 

"Well,  say  ten  per  cent,  on  the  price — two-fifty." 

"Wall,  that  ain't  bad.  Wait  on  'im  till  'e  thrashes?" 

Haskins  listened  eagerly  to  this  important  question,  but  Council 
was  coolly  eating  a  dried  apple  which  he  had  speared  out  of  a  bar- 
rel with  his  knife.  Butler  studied  him  carefully. 

"Well,  knocks  me  out  of  twenty-five  dollars  interest." 

"My  relation'll  need  all  he's  got  t'  git  his  crops  in,"  said  Coun- 
cil, in  the  same,  indifferent  way. 

"Well,  all  right ;  say  wait,"  concluded  Butler. 

"All  right;  this  is  the  man.  Haskins,  this  is  Mr.  Butler — no  rela- 
tion to  Ben — the  hardest-working  man  in  Cedar  County." 

On  the  way  home  Haskins  said:  "I  ain't  much  better  off.  I'd  like 
that  farm;  it's  a  good  farm,  but  it's  all  run  down,  an'  so  'm  I.  I 
could  make  a  good  farm  of  it  if  I  had  half  a  show.  But  I  can't 
stock  it  n'r  seed  it." 

"Waal,  now,  don't  you  worry,"  roared  Council  in  his  ear.  "We'll 
pull  y'  through  somehow  till  next  harvest.  He's  agreed  t'  hire  it 
ploughed,  an'  you  can  earn  a  hundred  dollars  ploughin'  an'  y'  c'n 
git  the  seed  o'  me,  an'  pay  me  back  when  y'  can." 

Haskins  was  silent  with  emotion,  but  at  last  he  said,  "I  ain't  got 
nothin'  t'  live  on." 

"Now,  don't  .you  worry  'bout  that.  You  jest  make  your  head- 
quarters at  ol'  Steve  Council's.  Mother'll  take  a  pile  o'  comfort  in 
havin'  y'r  wife  an'  children  'round.  Y'  see,  Jane's  married  off  lately, 


138  Main-Travelled  Roads 

an'  Ike's  away  a  good  'eal,  so  we'll  be  darn  glad  t'  have  y'  stop  with 
us  this  winter.  Nex'  spring  we'll  see  if  y'  can't  git  a  start  agin." 
And  he  chirruped  to  the  team,  which  sprang  forward  with  the 
rumbling,  clattering  wagon. 

"Say,  looky  here,  Council,  you  can't  do  this.  I  never  saw " 

shouted  Haskins  in  his  neighbor's  ear. 

Council  moved  about  uneasily  in  his  seat  and  stopped  his  stam- 
mering gratitude  by  saying:  "Hold  on,  now;  don't  make  such  a 
fuss  over  a  little  thing.  When  I  see  a  man  down,  an'  things  all  on 
top  of  'm,  I  jest  like  t'  kick  'em  off  an'  help  'm  up.  That's  the  kind 
of  religion  I  got,  an'  it's  about  the  only  kind." 

They  rode  the  rest  of  the  way  home  in  silence.  And  when  the 
red  light  of  the  lamp  shone  out  into  the  darkness  of  the  cold  and 
windy  night,  and  he  thought  of  this  refuge  for  his  children  and 
wife,  Haskins  could  have  put  his  arm  around  the  neck  of  his  burly 
companion  and  squeezed  him  like  a  lover.  But  he  contented  himself 
with  saying,  "Steve  Council,  you'll  git  y'r  pay  f'r  this  some  day." 

"Don't  want  any  pay.  My  religion  ain't  run  on  such  business 
principles." 

The  wind  was  growing  colder,  and  the  ground  was  covered  with 
a  white  frost,  as  they  turned  into  the  gate  of  the  Council  farm,  and 
the  children  came  rushing  out,  shouting,  "Papa's  come!"  They 
hardly  looked  like  the  same  children  who  had  sat  at  the  table  the 
night  before.  Their  torpidity,  under  the  influence  of  sunshine  and 
Mother  Council,  had  given  way  to  a  sort  of  spasmodic  cheerfulness, 
as  insects  in  winter  revive  when  laid  on  the  hearth. 

Ill 

Haskins  worked  like  a  fiend,  and  his  wife,  like  the  heroic  woman 
that  she  was,  bore  also  uncomplainingly  the  most  terrible  burdens. 
They  rose  early  and  toiled  without  intermission  till  the  darkness 
fell  on  the  plain,  then  tumbled  into  bed,  every  bone  and  muscle 
aching  with  fatigue,  to  rise  with  the  sun  next  morning  to  the  same 
round  of  the  same  ferocity  of  labor. 

The  eldest  boy  drove  a  team  all  through  the  spring,  ploughing 


Under  the  Lion's  Paw  139 

and  seeding,  milked  the  cows,  and  did  chores  innumerable,  in  most 
ways  taking  the  place  of  a  man. 

An  infinitely  pathetic  but  common  figure — this  boy  on  the  Amer- 
ican farm,  where  there  is  no  law  against  child  labor.  To  see  him 
in  his  coarse  clothing,  his  huge  boots,  and  his  ragged  cap,  as  he 
staggered  with  a  pail  of  water  from  the  well,  or  trudged  in  the 
cold  and  cheerless  dawn  out  into  the  frosty  field  behind  his  team, 
gave  the  city-bred  visitor  a  sharp  pang  of  sympathetic  pain.  Yet 
Haskins  loved  his  boy,  and  would  have  saved  him  from  this  if  he 
could,  but  he  could  not. 

By  June  the  first  year  the  result  of  such  Herculean  toil  began 
to  show  on  the  farm.  The  yard  was  cleaned  up  and  sown  to  grass, 
the  garden  ploughed  and  planted,  and  the  house  mended. 

Council  had  given  them  four  of  his  cows. 

"Take  'em  an'  run  'em  on  shares.  I  don't  want  'o  milk  s'  many. 
Ike's  away  s'  much  now,  Sat'd'ys  an'  Sund'ys,  I  can't  stand  the 
bother  anyhow." 

Other  men,  seeing  the  confidence  of  Council  in  the  newcomer, 
had  sold  him  tools  on  time;  and  as  he  was  really  an  able  farmer, 
he  soon  had  round  him  many  evidences  of  his  care  and  thrift.  At 
the  advice  of  Council  he  had  taken  the  farm  for  three  years,  with 
the  privilege  of  re-renting  or  buying  at  the  end  of  the  term. 

"It's  a  good  bargain,  an'  y'  want  'o  nail  it,"  said  Council.  "If 
you  have  any  kind  ov  a  crop,  you  c'n  pay  y'r  debts,  an'  keep  seed 
an'  bread." 

The  new  hope  which  now  sprang  up  in  the  heart  of  Haskins 
and  his  wife  grew  almost  as  a  pain  by  the  time  the  wide  field  of 
wheat  began  to  wave  and  rustle  and  swirl  in  the  winds  of  July. 
Day  after  day  he  would  snatch  a  few  moments  after  supper  to  go 
and  look  at  it. 

"Have  ye  seen  the  wheat  t'-day,  Nettie?"  he  asked  one  night  as 
he  rose  from  supper. 

"No,  Tim,  I  ain't  had  time." 

"Well,  take  time  now.  Le's  go  look  at  it." 

She  threw  an  old  hat  on  her  head — Tommy's  hat — and  looking 


140  Main-Travelled  Roads 

almost  pretty  in  her  thin,  sad  way,  went  out  with  her  husband  to 
the  hedge. 

"Ain't  it  grand,  Nettie?  Just  look  at  it." 

It  was  grand.  Level,  russet  here  and  there,  heavy-headed,  wide 
as  a  lake,  and  full  of  multitudinous  whispers  and  gleams  of  wealth, 
it  stretched  away  before  the  gazers  like  the  fabled  field  of  the  cloth 
of  gold. 

"Oh,  I  think — I  hope  we'll  have  a  good  crop,  Tim ;  and  oh,  how 
good  the  people  have  been  to  us!" 

"Yes ;  I  don't  know  where  we'd  be  t'-day  if  it  hadn't  ben  f 'r 
Council  and  his  wife." 

"They're  the  best  people  in  the  world,"  said  the  little  woman, 
with  a  great  sob  of  gratitude. 

"We'll  be  in  the  field  on  Monday  sure,"  said  Haskins,  gripping 
the  rail  on  the  fences  as  if  already  at  the  work  of  the  harvest. 

The  harvest  came,  bounteous,  glorious,  but  the  winds  came  and 
blew  it  into  tangles,  and  the  rain  matted  it  here  and  there  close  to 
the  ground,  increasing  the  work  of  gathering  it  threefold. 

Oh,  how  they  toiled  in  those  glorious  days!  Clothing  dripping 
with  sweat,  arms  aching,  filled  with  briers,  fingers  raw  and  bleed- 
ing, backs  broken  with  the  weight  of  heavy  bundles,  Haskins  and 
his  man  toiled  on.  Tommy  drove  the  harvester,  while  his  father 
and  a  hired  man  bound  on  the  machine.  In  this  way  they  cut  ten 
acres  every  day,  and  almost  every  night  after  supper,  when  the  hand 
went  to  bed,  Haskins  returned  to  the  field  shocking  the  bound  grain 
in  the  light  of  the  moon.  Many  a  night  he  worked  till  his  anxious 
wife  came  out  at  ten  o'clock  to  call  him  in  to  rest  and  lunch. 

At  the  same  time  she  cooked  for  the  men,  took  care  of  the  chil- 
dren, washed  and  ironed,  milked  the  cows  at  night,  made  the  butter, 
and  sometimes  fed  the  horses  and  watered  them  while  her  husband 
kept  at  the  shocking. 

No  slave  in  the  Roman  galleys  could  have  toiled  so  frightfully 
and  lived,  for  this  man  thought  himself  a  free  man,  and  that  he 
was  working  for  his  wife  and  babes. 

When  he  sank  into  his  bed  with  a  deep  groan  of  relief,  too  tired 
to  change  his  grimy,  dripping  clothing,  he  felt  that  he  was  getting 


Under  the  Lion's  Paw  141 

nearer  and  nearer  to  a  home  of  his  own,  and  pushing  the  wolf  of 
want  a  little  farther  from  his  door. 

There  is  no  despair  so  deep  as  the  despair  of  a  homeless  man  or 
woman.  To  roam  the  roads  of  the  country  or  the  streets  of  the  city, 
to  feel  there  is  no  rood  of  ground  on  which  the  feet  can  rest,  to 
halt  weary  and  hungry  outside  lighted  windows  and  hear  laughter 
and  song  within, — these  are  the  hungers  and  rebellions  that  drive 
men  to  crime  and  women  to  shame. 

It  was  the  memory  of  this  homelessness,  and  the  fear  of  its  com- 
ing again,  that  spurred  Timothy  Haskins  and  Nettie,  his  wife,  to 
such  ferocious  labor  during  that  first  year. 

IV 

"  'M,  yes;  'm,  yes;  first-rate,"  said  Butler,  as  his  eye  took  in  the 
neat  garden,  the  pig-pen,  and  the  well-filled  barnyard.  "You're 
gittV  quite  a  stock  around  yeh.  Done  well,  eh?" 

Haskins  was  showing  Butler  around  the  place.  He  had  not  seen 
it  for  a  year,  having  spent  the  year  in  Washington  and  Boston 
with  Ashley,  his  brother-in-law,  who  had  been  elected  to  Congress. 

"Yes,  I've  laid  out  a  good  deal  of  money  durin'  the  last  three 
years.  I've  paid  out  three  hundred  dollars  f'r  fencin'." 

"Urn — h'm !  I  see,  I  see,"  said  Butler,  while  Haskins  went  on : 

"The  kitchen  there  cost  two  hundred;  the  barn  ain't  cost  much 
in  money,  but  I've  put  a  lot  o'  time  on  it.  I've  dug  a  new  well, 
and  I » 

"Yes,  yes,  I  see.  You've  done  well.  Stock  worth  a  thousand  dol- 
lars," said  Butler,  picking  his  teeth  with  a  straw. 

"About  that,"  said  Haskins,  modestly.  "We  begin  to  feel's  if  we 
was  gitt'n'  a  home  f'r  ourselves ;  but  we've  worked  hard.  I  tell  you 
we  begin  to  feel  it,  Mr.  Butler,  and  we're  goin'  t'  begin  to  ease  up 
purty  soon.  We've  been  kind  o'  plannin'  a  trip  back  t'  her  folks 
after  the  fall  ploughin's  done." 

"Eggs-actly !"  said  Butler,  who  was  evidently  thinking  of  some- 
thing else.  "I  suppose  you've  kind  o'  calc'lated  on  stayin'  here  three 
years  more?" 


142  Main-Travelled  Roads 

"Well,  yes.  Fact  is,  I  think  I  c'n  buy  the  farm  this  fall,  if  you'll 
give  me  a  reasonable  show." 

"Um — m!  What  do  you  call  a  reasonable  show?" 

"Well,  say  a  quarter  down  and  three  years'  time." 

Butler  looked  at  the  huge  stacks  of  wheat,  which  filled  the  yard, 
over  which  the  chickens  were  fluttering  and  crawling,  catching 
grasshoppers,  and  out  of  which  the  crickets  were  singing  innumer- 
ably. He  smiled  in  a  peculiar  way  as  he  said,  "Oh,  I  won't  be  hard 
on  yeh.  But  what  did  you  expect  to  pay  f'r  the  place?" 

"Why,  about  what  you  offered  it  for  before,  two  thousand  five 
hundred,  or  possibly  three  thousand  dollars,"  he  added  quickly,  as 
he  saw  the  owner  shake  his  head. 

"This  farm  is  worth  five  thousand  and  five  hundred  dollars," 
said  Butler,  in  a  careless  and  decided  voice. 

"Whatr  almost  shrieked  the  astounded  Haskins.  "What's  that? 
Five  thousand?  Why,  that's  double  what  you  offered  it  for  three 
years  ago." 

"Of  course,  and  it's  worth  it.  It  was  all  run  down  then ;  now  it's 
in  good  shape.  You've  laid  out  fifteen  hundred  dollars  in  improve- 
ments, according  to  your  own  story." 

"But  you  had  nothin'  t'  do  about  that.  It's  my  work  an'  my 


money." 


"You  bet  it  was;  but  it's  my  land." 
"But  what's  to  pay  me  for  all  my 


"Ain't  you  had  the  use  of  'em?"  replied  Butler,  smiling  calmly 
into  his  face. 

Haskins  was  like  a  man  struck  on  the  head  with  a  sandbag ;  he 
xouldn't  think;  he  stammered  as  he  tried  to  say:  "But — I  never'd 
git  the  use —  You'd  rob  me !  More'n  that :  you  agreed — you  prom- 
ised that  I  could  buy  or  rent  at  the  end  of  three  years  at " 

"That's  all  right.  But  I  didn't  say  I'd  let  you  carry  off  the  im- 
provements, nor  that  I'd  go  on  renting  the  farm  at  two-fifty.  The 
land  is  doubled  in  value,  it  don't  matter  how;  it  don't  enter  into 
the  question;  an'  now  you  can  pay  me  five  hundred  dollars  a  year 
rent,  or  take  it  on  your  own  terms  at  fifty-five  hundred,  or — git 


Under  the  Lion's  Paw  143 

He  was  turning  away  when  Haskins,  the  sweat  pouring  from  his 
face,  fronted  him,  saying  again: 

"But  you've  done  nothing  to  make  it  so.  You  hain't  added  a 
cent.  I  put  it  all  there  myself,  expectin'  to  buy.  I  worked  an'  sweat 
to  improve  it.  I  was  workin'  for  myself  an'  babes " 

"Well,  why  didn't  you  buy  when  I  offered  to  sell?  What  y' 
kickin'  about?" 

"I'm  kickin'  about  payin'  you  twice  f'r  my  own  things, — my  own 
fences,  my  own  kitchen,  my  own  garden." 

Butler  laughed.  "You're  too  green  t'  eat,  young  feller.  Your 
improvements !  The  law  will  sing  another  tune." 

"But  I  trusted  your  word." 

"Never  trust  anybody,  my  friend.  Besides,  I  didn't  promise  not 
to  do  this  thing.  Why,  man,  don't  look  at  me  like  that.  Don't  take 
me  for  a  thief.  It's  the  law.  The  reg'lar  thing.  Everybody  does  it." 

"I  don't  care  if  they  do.  It's  stealin'  jest  the  same.  You  take  three 
thousand  dollars  of  my  money — the  work  o'  my  hands  and  my 
wife's."  He  broke  down  at  this  point.  He  was  not  a  strong  man 
mentally.  He  could  face  hardship,  ceaseless  toil,  but  he  could  not 
face  the  cold  and  sneering  face  of  Butler. 

"But  I  don't  take  it,"  said  Butler,  coolly  "All  you've  got  to  do 
is  to  go  on  jest  as  you've  been  a-doin',  or  give  me  a  thousand  dol- 
lars down,  and  a  mortgage  at  ten  per  cent  on  the  rest." 

Haskins  sat  down  blindly  on  a  bundle  of  oats  near  by,  and  with 
staring  eyes  and  drooping  head  went  over  the  situation.  He  was 
under  the  lion's  paw.  He  felt  a  horrible  numbness  in  his  he?rt  and 
limbs.  He  was  hid  in  a  mist,  and  there  was  no  path  out. 

Butler  walked  about,  looking  at  the  huge  stacks  of  grain,  and 
pulling  now  and  again  a  few  handfuls  out,  shelling  the  heads  in 
his  hands  and  blowing  the  chaff  away.  He  hummed  a  little  tune  as 
he  did  so.  He  had  an  accommodating  air  of  waiting. 

Haskins  was  in  the  midst  of  the  terrible  toil  of  the  last  year.  He 
was  walking  again  in  the  rain  and  the  mud  behind  his  plough ;  he 
felt  the  dust  and  dirt  of  the  threshing.  The  ferocious  husking-time, 
with  its  cutting  wind  and  biting,  clinging  snows,  lay  hard  upon 


144  Main-Travelled  Roads 

him.  Then  he  thought  of  his  wife,  how  she  had  cheerfully  cooked 
and  baked,  without  holiday  and  without  rest. 

"Well,  what  do  you  think  of  it?"  inquired  the  cool,  mocking, 
insinuating  voice  of  Butler. 

"I  think  you're  a  thief  and  a  liar!"  shouted  Haskins,  leaping  up. 
"A  black-hearted  houn'!"  Butler's  smile  maddened  him;  with  a 
sudden  leap  he  caught  a  fork  in  his  hands,  and  whirled  it  in  the 
air.  "You'll  never  rob  another  man,  damn  ye !"  he  grated  through 
his  teeth,  a  look  of  pitiless  ferocity  in  his  accusing  eyes. 

Butler  shrank  and  quivered,  expecting  the  blow;  stood,  held 
hypnotized  by  the  eyes  of  the  man  he  had  a  moment  before  despised 
— a  man  transformed  into  an  avenging  demon.  But  in  the  deadly 
hush  between  the  lift  of  the  weapon  and  its  fall  there  came  a  gush 
of  faint,  childish  laughter  and  then  across  the  range  of  his  vision, 
far  away  and  dim,  he  saw  the  sun-bright  head  of  his  baby  girl,  as, 
with  the  pretty,  tottering  run  of  a  two-year-old,  she  moved  across 
the  grass  of  the  dooryard.  His  hands  relaxed :  the  fork  fell  to  the 
ground ;  his  head  lowered. 

"Make  out  y'r  deed  an'  mor'gage,  an'  git  off'n  my  land,  an' 
don't  ye  never  cross  my  line  agin;  if  y'  do,  I'll  kill  ye." 

Butler  backed  away  from  the  man  in  wild  haste,  and  climbing 
into  his  buggy  with  trembling  limbs  drove  off  down  the  road,  leav- 
ing Haskins  seated  dumbly  on  the  sunny  pile  of  sheaves,  his  head 
sunk  into  his  hands. 


THE  CREAMERY  MAN 

THE  tin-peddler  has  gone  out  of  the  West.  Amiable  gossip  and 
sharp  trader  that  he  was,  his  visits  once  brought  a  sharp  business 
grapple  to  the  farmer's  wife  and  daughters,  after  which,  as  the 
man  of  trade  was  repacking  his  unsold  wares,  a  moment  of  cheerful 
talk  often  took  place.  It  was  his  cue,  if  he  chanced  to  be  a  tactful 
peddler,  to  drop  all  attempts  at  sale  and  become  distinctly  human 
and  neighborly. 

His  calls  were  not  always  well  received,  but  they  were  at  their 
best  pleasant  breaks  of  a  monotonous  round  of  duties.  But  he  is  no 
longer  a  familiar  spot  on  the  landscape.  He  has  passed  into  the 
limbo  of  the  things  no  longer  necessary.  His  red  wagon  may  be 
rumbling  and  rattling  through  some  newer  region,  but  the  "Coolly 
Country"  knows  him  no  more. 

"The  creamery  man"  has  taken  his  place.  Every  afternoon,  rain 
or  shine,  the  wagons  of  the  North  Star  Creamery  in  "Dutcher's 
Coolly"  stop  at  the  farmers'  windmills  to  skim  the  cream  from  the 
"submerged  cans."  His  wagon  is  not  gay;  it  is  generally  battered 
and  covered  with  mud  and  filled  with  tall  cans;  but  the  driver 
himself  is  generally  young  and  sometimes  attractive.  The  driver  in 
Molasses  Gap,  which  is  a  small  coolly  leading  into  Dutcher's 
Coolly,  was  particularly  good-looking  and  amusing. 

He  was  aware  of  his  good  looks,  and  his  dress  not  only  showed 
that  he  was  single,  but  that  he  hoped  to  be  married  soon.  He  wore 
brown  trousers,  which  fitted  him  very  well,  and  a  dark  blue  shirt, 
which  had  a  gay  lacing  of  red  cord  in  front,  and  a  pair  of  sus- 
penders that  were  a  vivid  green.  On  his  head  he  wore  a  Chinese 
straw  helmet,  which  was  as  ugly  as  anything  could  conceivably  be, 
but  he  was  as  proud  of  it  as  he  was  of  his  green  suspenders.  In 
summer  he  wore  no  coat  at  all,  and  even  in  pretty  cold  weather  he 


146  Main-Travelled  Roads 

left  his  vest  on  his  wagon-seat,  not  being  able  to  bring  himself  to 
the  point  of  covering  up  the  red  and  green  of  his  attire. 

It  was  noticeable  that  the  women  of  the  neighborhood  always 
came  out,  even  on  wash-day,  to  see  that  Claude  (his  name  was 
Claude  Williams)  measured  the  cream  properly.  There  was  much 
banter  about  this.  Mrs.  Kennedy  always  said  she  wouldn't  trust 
him  "fur's  you  can  fling  a  yearlin'  bull  by  the  tail." 

"Now  that's  the  difference  between  us,"  he  would  reply.  "I'd 
trust  you  anywhere.  Anybody  with  such  a  daughter  as  your'n." 

He  seldom  got  further,  for  Lucindy  always  said  (in  substance), 
"Oh,  you  go  'long." 

There  need  be  no  mystery  in  the  matter.  'Cindy  was  the  girl 
for  whose  delight  he  wore  the  green  and  red.  He  made  no  secret 
of  his  love,  and  she  made  no  secret  of  her  scorn.  She  laughed  at  his 
green  'spenders  and  the  "red  shoestring"  in  his  shirt;  but  Claude 
considered  himself  very  learned  in  women's  ways,  by  reason  of  two 
years'  driving  the  creamery  wagon,  and  he  merely  winked  at  Mrs. 
Kennedy  when  the  girl  was  looking,  and  kissed  his  hand  at  'Cindy 
when  her  mother  was  not  looking. 

He  looked  forward  every  afternoon  to  these  little  exchanges  of 
wit,  and  was  depressed  when  for  any  reason  the  women  folks  were 
away.  There  were  other  places  pleasanter  than  the  Kennedy  farm 
— some  of  "the  Dutchmen"  had  fine  big  brick  houses  and  finer  and 
bigger  barns,  but  their  women  were  mostly  homely,  and  went 
around  bare-footed  and  bare-legged,  with  ugly  blue  dresses  hang- 
ing frayed  and  greasy  round  their  lank  ribs  and  big  joints. 

"Someway  their  big  houses  have  a  look  like  a  stable  when  you  get 
close  to  'em,"  Claude  said  to  'Cindy  once.  "Their  women  work  so 
much  in  the  field  they  don't  have  any  time  to  fix  up — the  way  you 
do.  I  don't  believe  in  women  workin'  in  the  fields."  He  said  this 
looking  'Cindy  in  the  face.  "My  wife  needn't  set  her  foot  outdoors 
'less  she's  a  mind  to." 

"Oh,  you  can  talk,"  replied  the  girl,  scornfully,  "but  you'd  be 
like  the  rest  of  'em."  But  she  was  glad  that  she  had  on  a  clean  collar 
and  apron — if  it  was  ironing-day. 

What  Claude  would  have  said  further  'Cindy  could  not  divine, 


The  Creamery  Man  147 

for  her  mother  called  her  away,  as  she  generally  did  when  she  saw 
her  daughter  lingering  too  long  with  the  creamery  man.  Claude  was 
not  considered  a  suitable  match  for  Lucindy  Kennedy,  whose  father 
owned  one  of  the  finest  farms  in  the  Coolly.  Worldly  considerations 
hold  in  Molasses  Gap  as  well  as  in  Bluff  Siding  and  Tyre. 

But  Claude  gave  little  heed  to  these  moods  in  Mrs.  Kennedy.  If 
'Cindy  sputtered,  he  laughed ;  and  if  she  smiled,  he  rode  on  whis- 
tling till  he  came  to  old  man  Haldeman's,  who  owned  the  whole 
lower  half  of  Molasses  Gap,  and  had  one  unmarried  daughter,  who 
thought  Claude  one  of  the  handsomest  men  in  the  world.  She  was 
always  at  the  gate  to  greet  him  as  he  drove  up,  and  forced  sections 
of  cake  and  pieces  of  gooseberry  pie  upon  him  each  day. 

''She's  good  enough — for  a  Dutchman,"  Claude  said  of  her,  "but 
I  hate  to  see  a  woman  go  around  looking  as  if  her  clothes  would  drop 
off  if  it  rained  on  her.  And  on  Sundays,  when  she  dresses  up,  she 
looks  like  a  boy  rigged  out  in  some  girl's  cast-off  duds." 

This  was  pretty  hard  on  Nina.  She  was  tall  and  lank  and  sandy, 
with  small  blue  eyes,  her  limbs  were  heavy,  and  she  did  wear  her 
Sunday  clothes  badly,  but  she  was  a  good,  generous  soul,  and  very 
much  in  love  with  the  creamery  man.  She  was  not  very  clean,  but 
then  she  could  not  help  that;  the  dust  of  the  field  is  no  respecter 
of  sex.  No,  she  was  not  lovely,  but  she  was  the  only  daughter  of 
old  Ernest  Haldeman,  and  the  old  man  was  not  very  strong. 

Claude  was  the  daily  bulletin  of  the  Gap.  He  knew  whose  cow 
died  the  night  before,  who  was  at  the  strawberry  dance,  and  all 
about  Abe  Anderson's  night  in  jail  up  at  the  Siding.  If  his  coming 
was  welcome  to  the  Kennedy's,  who  took  the  Bluff  Siding  Gimlet 
and  the  county  paper,  how  much  the  more  cordial  ought  his  greet- 
ing to  be  at  Haldeman's,  where  they  only  took  the  Milwaukee 
Weekly  Freiheit. 

Nina  in  her  poor  way  had  longings  and  aspirations.  She  wanted 
to  marry  "a  Yankee,"  and  not  one  of  her  own  kind.  She  had  a  little 
schooling  obtained  at  the  small  brick  shed  under  the  towering  cot- 
tonwood  tree  at  the  corner  of  her  father's  farm;  but  her  life  had 
been  one  of  hard  work  and  mighty  little  play.  Her  parents  spoke 
in  German  about  the  farm,  and  could  speak  English  only  very 


148  Main-Travelled  Roads 

brokenly.  Her  only  brother  had  adventured  into  the  foreign  parts 
of  Pine  County,  and  had  been  killed  in  a  sawmill.  Her  life  was 
lonely  and  hard. 

She  had  suitors  among  the  Germans,  plenty  of  them,  but  she  had 
a  disgust  of  them — considered  as  possible  husbands — and  though 
she  went  to  their  beery  dances  occasionally,  she  had  always  in  her 
mind  the  ease,  lightness,  and  color  of  Claude.  She  knew  that  the 
Yankee  girls  did  not  work  in  the  fields, — even  the  Norwegian  girls 
seldom  did  so  now,  they  worked  out  in  town, — but  she  had  been 
brought  up  to  hoe  and  pull  weeds  from  her  childhood,  and  her 
father  and  mother  considered  it  good  for  her,  and  being  a  gentle 
and  obedient  child,  she  still  continued  to  do  as  she  was  told.  Claude 
pitied  the  girl,  and  used  to  talk  with  her,  during  his  short  stay,  in 
his  cheeriest  manner. 

"Hello,  Nina!  How  you  vass,  ain't  it?  How  much  cream  already 
you  got  this  morning?  Did  you  hear  the  news,  not?" 

"No,  vot  hass  happened?" 

"Everything.  Frank  McVey's  horse  stepped  through  the  bridge 
and  broke  his  leg,  and  he's  going  to  sue  the  county — mean  Frank 
is,  not  the  horse." 

"Issdotso?" 

"Sure !  and  Bill  Hetner  had  a  fight,  and  Julia  Doorflinger's  got 
home." 

"Vot  wass  Bill  fightding  apoudt?"  ^ 

"Oh,  drunk — fighting  for  exercise.  Hain't  got  a  fresh  pie 
cut?" 

Her  face  lighted  up,  and  she  turned  so  suddenly  to  go  that  her 
bare  leg  showed  below  her  dress.  Her  unstockinged  feet  were  thrust 
into  coarse  working  shoes.  Claude  wrinkled  his  nose  in  disgust, 
but  he  took  the  piece  of  green  currant  pie  on  the  palm  of  his  hand 
and  bit  the  acute  angle  from  it. 

"First  rate.  You  do  make  lickin'  good  pies,"  he  said,  out  of  pure 
kindness  of  heart ;  and  Nina  was  radiant. 

"She  wouldn't  be  so  bad-lookin'  if  they  didn't  work  her  in  the 
fields  like  a  horse,"  he  said  to  himself  as  he  drove  away. 

The  neighbors  were  well  aware  of  Nina's  devotion,  and  Mrs. 


The  Creamery  Man  149 

Smith,  who  lived  two  or  three  houses  down  the  road,  said,  "Good- 
evening,  Claude.  Seen  Nina  today?" 

"Sure !  and  she  gave  me  a  piece  of  currant  pie — her  own  make." 
"Did  you  eat  it?" 

"Did  I  ?  I  guess  yes.  I  ain't  refusin'  pie  from  Nina — not  while 
her  pa  has  five  hundred  acres  of  the  best  land  in  Molasses  Gap." 

Now,  it  was  this  innocent  joking  on  his  part  that  started  all 
Claude's  trouble.  Mrs.  Smith  called  a  couple  of  days  later,  and  had 
her  joke  with  'Cindy. 

"  'Cindy,  your  cake's  all  dough." 
"Why,  what's  the  matter  now?" 

"Claude  come  along  t'other  day  grinnin'  from  ear  to  ear,  and 
some  currant  pie  in  his  musstache.  He  had  jest  fixed  it  up  with 
Nina.  He  jest  as  much  as  said  he  was  after  the  old  man's  acres." 
"Well,  let  him  have  'em.  I  don't  know  as  it  interests  me,"  re- 
plied 'Cindy,  waving  her  head  like  a  banner.  "If  he  wants  to  sell 
himself  to  that  greasy  Dutchwoman — why,  let  him,  that's  all!  I 
don't  care." 

Her  heated  manner  betrayed  her  to  Mrs.  Smith,  who  laughed 
with  huge  enjoyment. 

"Well,  you  better  watch  out!" 

The  next  day  was  very  warm,  and  when  Claude  drove  up  under 
the  shade  of  the  big  maples  he  was  ready  for  a  chat  while  his  horses 
rested,  but  'Cindy  was  nowhere  to  be  seen.  Mrs.  Kennedy  came 
out  to  get  the  amount  of  the  skimming,  and  started  to  reenter  the 
house  without  talk. 

"Where's  the  young  folks?"  asked  Claude  carelessly. 
"If  you  mean  Lucindy,  she's  in  the  house." 
"Ain't  sick  or  nothin',  is  she  ?" 

"Not  that  anybody  knows  of.  Don't  expect  her  to  be  here  to  gass 
with  you  every  time,  do  ye?" 

"Well,  I  wouldn't  mind,"  replied  Claude.  He  was  too  keen  not 
to  see  his  chance.  "In  fact,  I'd  like  to  have  her  with  me  all  the  time, 
Mrs.  Kennedy,"  he  said,  with  engaging  frankness. 

"Well,  you  can't  have  her,"  the  mother  replied  ungraciously. 
"What's  the  matter  with  me?" 


150  Main-Travelled  Roads 

"Oh,  I  like  you  well  enough,  but  'Cindy'd  be  a  big  fool  to  marry 
a  man  without  a  roof  to  cover  his  head." 

"That's  where  you  take  your  inning,  sure,"  Claude  replied.  "I'm 
not  much  better  than  a  hired  hand.  Well,  now,  see  here,  I'm  going 
to  make  a  strike  one  of  these  days,  and  then — look  out  for  me !  You 
don't  know  but  what  I've  invested  in  a  gold  mine.  I  may  be  a  Dutch 
lord  in  disguise.  Better  not  be  brash." 

Mrs.  Kennedy's  sourness  could  not  stand  against  such  sweetness 
and  drollery.  She  smiled  in  wry  fashion.  "You'd  better  be  moving, 
or  you'll  be  late." 

"Sure  enough.  If  I  only  had  you  for  a  mother-in-law — that's 
why  I'm  so  poor.  Nobody  to  keep  me  moving.  If  I  had  some  one  to 
do  the  talking  for  me,  I'd  work."  He  grinned  broadly  and  drove 
out. 

His  irritation  led  him  to  say  some  things  to  Nina  which  he 
would  not  have  thought  of  saying  the  day  before.  She  had  been 
working  in  the  field,  and  had  dropped  her  hoe  to  see  him. 

"Say,  Nina,  I  wouldn't  work  outdoors  such  a  day  as  this  if  I  was 
you.  I'd  tell  the  old  man  to  go  to  thunder,  and  I'd  go  in  and  wash 
up  and  look  decent.  Yankee  women  don't  do  that  kind  of  work, 
and  your  old  dad's  rich;  no  use  of  your  sweatin'  around  a  corn- 
field with  a  hoe  in  your  hands.  I  don't  like  to  see  a  woman  goin' 
round  without  stockin's,  and  her  hands  all  chapped  and  calloused. 
It  ain't  accordin'  to  Hoyle.  No,  sir!  I  wouldn't  stand  it.  I'd  serve 
an  injunction  on  the  old  man  right  now." 

A  dull,  slow  flush  crept  into  the  girl's  face  and  she  put  one  hand 
over  the  other  as  they  rested  on  the  fence.  One  looked  so  much  less 
monstrous  than  two. 

Claude  went  on,  "Yes,  sir!  I'd  brace  up  and  go  to  Yankee  meet- 
ing instead  of  Dutch;  you'd  pick  up  a  Yankee  beau  like  as  not." 

He  gathered  his  cream  while  she  stood  silently  by,  and  when  he 
looked  at  her  again  she  was  in  deep  thought. 

"Good-day,"  he  said  cheerily. 

"Good-by,"  she  replied,  and  her  face  flushed  again. 

It  rained  that  night  and  the  roads  were  very  bad,  and  he  was 
late  the  next  time  he  arrived  at  Haldeman's.  Nina  came  out  in  her 


The  Creamery  Man  151 

best  dress,  but  he  said  nothing  about  it,  supposing  she  was  going 
to  town  or  something  like  that,  and  he  hurried  through  with  his 
task  and  had  mounted  his  seat  before  he  realized  that  anything  was 
wrong. 

Then  Mrs.  Haldeman  appeared  at  the  kitchen  door  and  hurled 
a  lot  of  unintelligible  German  at  him.  He  knew  she  was  mad,  and 
mad  at  him,  and  also  at  Nina,  for  she  shook  her  fist  at  them 
alternately. 

Singular  to  tell,  Nina  paid  no  attention  to  her  mother's  sputter. 
She  looked  at  Claude  with  a  certain  timid  audacity. 

"How  you  like  me  to-day?" 

"That's  better,"  he  said,  as  he  eyed  her  critically.  "Now  you're 
talkin'!  I'd  do  a  little  reading  of  the  newspaper  myself,  if  I  was* 
you.  A  woman's  business  ain't  to  work  out  in  the  hot  sun — it's  to 
cook  and  fix  up  things  round  the  house,  and  then  put  on  her  clean 
dress  and  set  in  the  shade  and  read  or  sew  on  something.  Stand  up 
to  'em !  doggone  me  if  I'd  paddle  round  that  hot  corn-field  with  a 
mess  o'  Dutchmen — it  ain't  decent !" 

He  drove  off  with  a  chuckle  at  the  old  man,  who  was  seated  at 
the  back  of  the  house  with  a  newspaper  in  his  hand.  He  was  lame, 
or  pretended  he  was,  and  made  his  wife  and  daughter  wait  upon 
him.  Claude  had  no  conception  of  what  was  working  in  Nina's 
mind,  but  he  could  not  help  observing  the  changes  for  the  better  in 
her  appearance.  Each  day  he  called  she  was  neatly  dressed,  and 
wore  her  shoes  laced  up  to  the  very  top  hook. 

She  was  passing  through  tribulation  on  his  account,  but  she  said 
nothing  about  it.  The  old  man,  her  father,  no  longer  spoke  to  her, 
and  the  mother  sputtered  continually,  but  the  girl  seemed  sustained 
by  some  inner  power.  She  calmly  went  about  doing  as  she  pleased, 
and  no  fury  of  words  could  check  her  or  turn  her  aside. 

Her  hands  grew  smooth  and  supple  once  more,  and  her  face  lost 
the  parboiled  look  it  once  had. 

Claude  noticed  all  these  gains,  and  commented  on  them  with  the 
freedom  of  a  man  who  had  established  friendly  relations  with  a 
child. 

"I  tell  you  what,  Nina,  you're  coming  along,  sure.  Next  ground 


152  Main-Travelled  Roads 

hop  you'll  be  wearin'  silk  stockin's  and  high-heeled  shoes.  How's 
the  old  man  ?  Still  mad  ?" 

"He  don't  speak  to  me  no  more.  My  mudder  says  I  am  a  big 
fool." 

"She  does?  Well,  you  tell  her  I  think  you're  just  getting 
sensible." 

She  smiled  again,  and  there  was  a  subtle  quality  in  the  mixture 
of  boldness  and  timidity  of  her  manner.  His  praise  was  so  sweet 
and  stimulating. 

"I  sold  my  pigs,"  she  said.  "The  old  man,  he  wass  madt,  but  I 
didn't  mind.  I  pought  me  a  new  dress  with  the  money." 

"That's  right!  I  like  to  see  a  woman  have  plenty  of  new  dresses," 
Claude  replied.  He  was  really  enjoying  the  girl's  rebellion  and 
growing  womanliness. 

Meanwhile  his  own  affairs  with  Lucindy  were  in  a  bad  way. 
He  seldom  saw  her  now.  Mrs.  Smith  was  careful  to  convey  to  her 
that  Claude  stopped  longer  than  was  necessary  at  Haldeman's, 
and  so  Mrs.  Kennedy  attended  to  the  matter  of  recording  the 
cream.  Kennedy  himself  was  always  in  the  field,  and  Claude  had 
no  opportunity  for  a  conversation  with  him,  as  he  very  much  wished 
to  have.  Once,  when  he  saw  'Cindy  in  the  kitchen  at  work,  he  left 
his  team  to  rest  in  the  shade  and  sauntered  to  the  door  and  looked  in. 

She  was  kneading  out  cake  dough,  and  she  looked  the  loveliest 
thing  he  had  ever  seen.  Her  sleeves  were  rolled  up.  Her  neat 
brown  dress  was  covered  with  a  big  apron,  and  her  collar  was  open 
a  little  at  the  throat,  for  it  was  warm  in  the  kitchen.  She  frowned 
when  she  saw  him. 

He  began  jocularly.  "Oh,  thank  you,  I  can  wait  till  it  bakes.  No 
trouble  at  all." 

"Well,  it's  a  good  deal  of  trouble  to  me  to  have  you  standin' 
there  gappin'  at  me !" 

"Ain't  gappin'  at  you.  I'm  waitin'  for  the  pie." 

"'Tain't  pie;  it's  cake." 

"Oh,  well,  cake'll  do  for  a  change.  Say,  'Cindy—" 

"Don't  call  me  'Cindy!" 


The  Creamery  Man  153 

"Well,  Lucindy.  It's  mighty  lonesome  when  I  don't  see  you  on 
my  trips." 

"Oh,  I  guess  you  can  stand  it  with  Nina  to  talk  to." 

"Aha!  jealous,  are  you?" 

"Jealous  of  that  Dutchwoman!  I  don't  care  who  you  talk  to,  and 
you  needn't  think  it.'' 

Claude  was  learned  in  woman's  ways,  and  this  pleased  him 
mightily. 

"Well,  when  shall  I  speak  to  your  daddy?" 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean,  and  I  don't  care." 

"Oh,  yes,  you  do.  I'm  going  to  come  up  here  next  Sunday  in  my 
best  bib  and  tucker,  and  I'm  going  to  say,  'Mr.  Kennedy' — " 

The  sound  of  Mrs.  Kennedy's  voice  and  footsteps  approaching 
made  Claude  suddenly  remember  his  duties. 

"See  ye  later,"  he  said,  with  a  grin.  "I'll  call  for  the  cake  next 
time." 

"Call  till  you  split  your  throat,  if  you  want  to,"  said  'Cindy. 

Apparently  this  could  have  gone  on  indefinitely,  but  it  didn't. 
Lucindy  went  to  Minneapolis  for  a  few  weeks  to  stay  with  her 
brother,  and  that  threw  Claude  deeper  into  despair  than  any- 
thing Mrs.  Kennedy  might  do  or  any  word  Lucindy  might  say. 
It  was  a  dreadful  blow  to  him  to  have  her  pack  up  and  go  so 
suddenly,  and  without  one  backward  look  at  him,  and,  besides,  he 
had  planned  taking  her  to  Tyre  on  the  Fourth  of  July. 

Mr.  Kennedy,  much  better-natured  than  the  mother,  told 
Claude  where  she  had  gone. 

"By  mighty!  That's  a  knock  on  the  nose  for  me.  When  did 
she  go?" 

"Yistady.  I  took  her  down  to  the  Siding." 

"When's  she  coming  back?" 

"Oh,  after  the  hot  weather  is  over;  four  or  five  weeks." 

"I  hope  I'll  be  alive  when  she  returns,"  said  Claude,  gloomily. 

Naturally  he  had  a  little  more  time  to  give  to  Nina  and  her 
remarkable  doings,  which  had  set  the  whole  neighborhood  to  won- 
dering "what  had  come  over  the  girl." 

She  no  longer  worked  in  the  field.  She  dressed  better,  and  had 


154  Main-Travelled  Roads 

taken  to  going  to  the  most  fashionable  church  in  town.  She  was 
as  a  woman  transformed.  Nothing  was  able  to  prevent  her  steady 
progression  and  bloom.  She  grew  plumper  and  fairer,  and  became 
so  much  more  attractive  that  the  young  Germans  thickened  round 
her,  and  one  or  two  Yankee  boys  looked  her  way.  Through  it 
all  Claude  kept  up  his  half-humorous  banter  and  altogether 
serious  daily  advice,  without  once  realizing  that  anything  senti- 
mental connected  him  with  it  all.  He  knew  she  liked  him,  and 
sometimes  he  felt  a  little  annoyed  by  her  attempts  to  please  him, 
but  that  she  was  doing  all  that  she  did  and  ordering  her  whole 
life  to  please  him  never  entered  his  self-sufficient  head. 

There  wasn't  much  room  left  in  that  head  for  any  one  else 
except  Lucindy,  and  his  plans  for  winning  her.  Plan  as  he  might, 
he  saw  no  way  of  making  more  than  the  two  dollars  a  day  he 
was  earning  as  a  cream  collector. 

Things  ran  along  thus  from  week  to  week  till  it  was  nearly 
time  for  Lucindy  to  return.  Claude  was  having  his  top  buggy 
repainted,  and  was  preparing  for  a  vigorous  campaign  when 
Lucindy  should  be  at  home  again.  He  owned  his  team  and  wagon 
and  the  buggy — nothing  more. 

One  Saturday  Mr.  Kennedy  said,  "Lucindy's  coming  home. 
I'm  going  down  after  her  to-night." 

"Let  me  bring  her  up,"  said  Claude,  with  suspicious  eagerness, 

Mr.  Kennedy  hesitated.  "No,  I  guess  I'll  go  myself.  I  want  to 
go  to  town,  anyway." 

Claude  was  in  high  spirits  as  he  drove  into  Haldemans'  yard 
that  afternoon. 

Nina  was  leaning  over  the  fence  singing  softly  to  herself,  but 
a  fierce  altercation  was  going  on  inside  the  house.  The  walls 
resounded.  It  was  all  Dutch  to  Claude,  but  he  knew  the  old 
people  were  quarrelling. 

Nina  smiled  and  colored  as  Claude  drew  up  at  the  side  gate. 
She  seemed  not  to  hear  the  eloquent  discussion  inside. 

"What's  going  on?"  asked  Claude. 

"Dey  tink  I  am  in  house." 

"How's  that?" 


The  Creamery  Man  155 

"My  mudder  she  lock  me  up." 

Claude  stared.  "Locked  you  up?  What  for?" 

"She  tondt  like  it  dot  I  come  out  to  see  you." 

"Oh,  she  don't?"  said  Claude.  "What's  the  matter  o'  me?  I 
ain't  a  dangerous  chap.  I  ain't  eatin'  up  little  girls." 

Nina  went  on  placidly.  "She  saidt  dot  you  was  goin'  to  marry 
me  undt  get  the  farm." 

Claude  grinned,  then  chuckled,  and  at  last  roared  and  whooped 
with  the  delight  of  it.  He  took  off  his  hat  and  said: 

"She  said  that,  did  she?  Why,  bless  her  old  cabbage  head — " 

The  opening  of  the  door  and  the  sudden  irruptions  of  Frau 
Haldeman  interrupted  him.  She  came  rushing  toward  him  like  a 
she  grizzly  bear,  uttering  a  torrent  of  German  expletives,  and 
hurled  herself  upon  him,  clutching  at  his  hair  and  throat.  He 
leaped  aside  and  struck  down  her  hands  with  a  sweep  of  his  hard 
right  arm.  As  she  turned  to  come  again  he  shouted, 

"Keep  off!  or  I'll  knock  you  down!" 

But  before  the  blow  came  Nina  seized  the  infuriated  woman 
from  behind  and  threw  her  down,  and  held  her  till  the  old  man 
came  hobbling  to  the  rescue.  He  seemed  a  little  dazed  by  it  all, 
and  made  no  effort  to  assault  Claude. 

The  old  woman,  who  was  already  black  in  the  face  with  rage, 
suddenly  fell  limp,  and  Nina,  kneeling  beside  her,  grew  white 
with  fear. 

"Oh,  vat  is  the  matter!  I  haf  kildt  her!" 

Claude  rushed  for  a  bucket  of  water,  and  dashed  it  in  the  old 
woman's  face.  He  flooded  her  with  slashings  of  it,  especially  after 
he  saw  her  open  her  eyes,  ending  by  emptying  the  bucket  in  her 
face.  He  was  a  little  malicious  about  that. 

The  mother  sat  up  soon,  wet,  scared,  bewildered,  gasping. 

"Mein  Gott!  Mein  Gott!  Ich  bin  ertrinken!" 

"What  does  she  say — she's  been  drinkin'?  Well,  that  looks 
reasonable." 

"No,  no — she  thinks  she  is  trouned." 

"Oh,  drowned!"  Claude  roared  again.  "Not  much  she  ain't. 
She's  only  just  getting  cooled  off." 


156  Main-Travelled  Roads 

He  helped  the  girl  get  her  mother  to  the  house  and  stretch  her 
out  on  a  bed.  The  old  woman  seemed  to  have  completely  exhausted 
herself  with  her  effort,  and  submitted  like  a  child  to  be  waited 
upon.  Her  sudden  fainting  had  subdued  her. 

Claude  had  never  penetrated  so  far  into  the  house  before,  and 
was  much  pleased  with  the  neatness  and  good  order  of  the  rooms, 
though  they  were  bare  of  furniture  and  carpets. 

As  the  girl  came  out  with  him  to  the  gate  he  uttered  the  most 
serious  word  he  had  ever  had  with  her. 

"Now,  I  want  you  to  notice,"  he  said,  "that  I  did  nothing  to 
call  out  the  old  lady's  rush  at  me.  I'd  'a'  hit  her,  sure,  if  she'd  'a' 
clinched  me  again.  I  don't  believe  in  striking  a  woman,  but  she 
was  after  my  hide  for  the  time  bein',  and  I  can't  stand  two  such 
clutches  in  the  same  place.  You  don't  blame  me,  I  hope." 

"No.  You  done  choost  ride." 

"What  do  you  suppose  the  old  woman  went  for  me  for?" 

Nina  looked  down  uneasily. 

"She  know  you  an'  me  lige  one  anudder,  an'  she  is  afrait  you 
marry  me,  an'  den  ven  she  tie  you  get  the  farm  a-ready." 

Claude  whistled.  "Great  Jehoshaphat!  She  really  thinks  that, 
does  she?  Well,  dog  my  cats!  What  put  that  idea  into  her  head?" 

"I  told  her,"  said  Nina  calmly. 

"You  told  her?"  Claude  turned  and  stared  at  her.  She  looked 
down,  and  her  face  slowly  grew  to  a  deep  red.  She  moved  un- 
easily from  one  foot  to  the  other,  like  an  awkward,  embarrassed 
child.  As  he  looked  at  her  standing  like  a  culprit  before  him,  his 
first  impulse  was  to  laugh.  He  was  not  specially  refined,  but 
he  was  a  kindly  man,  and  it  suddenly  occurred  to  him  that  the 
girl  was  suffering. 

"Well,  you  were  mistaken,"  he  said  at  last,  gently  enough.  "I 
don't  know  why  you  should  think  so,  but  I  never  thought  of 
marrying  you — never  thought  of  it." 

The  flush  faded  from  her  face,  and  she  stopped  swaying.  She 
lifted  her  eyes  to  his  in  a  tearful,  appealing  stare. 

"I  t'ought  so — you  made  me  t'ink  so." 

"I  did  ?  How  ?  I  never  said  a  word  to  you  about — liking  you  or 


The  Creamery  Man  157 

— marrying — or  anything  like  that.  I — "  He  was  going  to  tell 
her  he  intended  to  marry  Lucindy,  but  he  checked  himself. 

Her  lashes  fell  again,  and  the  tears  began  to  stream  down  her 
cheeks.  She  knew  the  worst  now.  His  face  had  convinced  her. 
She  could  not  tell  him  the  grounds  of  her  belief — that  every  time 
he  had  said,  "I  don't  like  to  see  a  woman  do  this  or  that,"  or, 
"I  like  to  see  a  woman  fix  up  around  the  house,"  she  had  con- 
sidered his  words  in  the  light  of  courtship,  believing  that  in  such 
ways  the  Yankees  made  love.  So  she  stood  suffering  dumbly  while 
he  loaded  his  cream-can  and  stood  by  the  wheel  ready  to  mount 
his  wagon. 

He  turned.  "I'm  mighty  sorry  about  it,"  he  said.  "Mebbe  I 
was  to  blame.  I  didn't  mean  nothing  by  it — not  a  thing.  It  was  all 
a  mistake.  Let's  shake  hands  over  it,  and  call  the  whole  business 
off." 

He  held  his  hand  out  to  her,  and  with  a  low  cry  she  seized  it 
and  laid  her  cheek  upon  it.  He  started  back  in  amazement,  and 
drew  his  hand  away.  She  fell  upon  her  knees  in  the  path  and 
covered  her  face  with  her  apron,  while  he  hastily  mounted  his 
seat  and  drove  away. 

Nothing  so  profoundly  moving  had  come  into  his  life  since  the 
death  of  his  mother,  and  as  he  rode  on  down  the  road  he  did  a 
great  deal  of  thinking.  First  it  gave  him  a  pleasant  sensation  to 
think  a  woman  should  care  so  much  for  him.  He  had  lived  a 
homeless  life  for  years,  and  had  come  into  intimate  relations  with 
few  women,  good  or  bad.  They  had  always  laughed  with  him 
(not  at  him,  for  Claude  was  able  to  take  care  of  himself),  and 
no  woman  before  had  taken  him  seriously,  and  there  was  a  certain 
charm  about  the  realization. 

Then  he  fell  to  wondering  what  he  had  said  or  done  to  give 
the  girl  such  a  notion  of  his  purposes.  Perhaps  he  had  been  too 
free  with  his  talk.  He  was  so  troubled  that  he  hardly  smiled  once 
during  the  rest  of  his  circuit,  and  at  night  he  refrained  from 
going  up  town,  and  sat  under  the  trees  back  of  the  creamery, 
and  smoked  and  pondered  on  the  astounding  situation. 

He  came  at  last  to  the  resolution  that  it  was  his  duty  to  declare 


158  Main-Travelled  Roads 

himself  to  Lucindy  and  end  all  uncertainty,  so  that  no  other 
woman  would  fall  into  Nina's  error.  He  was  as  good  as  an  en- 
gaged man,  and  the  world  should  know  it. 

The  next  day,  with  his  newly  painted  buggy  flashing  in  the 
sun,  and  the  extra  dozen  ivory  rings  he  had  purchased  for  his 
harnesses  clashing  together,  he  drove  up  the  road  as  a  man  of 
leisure  and  a  resolved  lover.  It  was  a  beautiful  day  in  August. 

Lucindy  was  getting  a  light  tea  for  some  friends  up  from  the 
Siding,  when  she  saw  Claude  drive  up. 

"Well,  for  the  land  sake!"  she  broke  out,  using  one  of  her 
mother's  phrases,  "if  here  isn't  that  creamery  man!"  In  that 
phrase  lay  the  answer  to  Claude's  question — if  he  had  heard  it. 
He  drove  in,  and  Mr.  Kennedy,  with  impartial  hospitality,  went 
out  and  asked  him  to  'light  and  put  his  team  in  the  barn. 

He  did  so,  feeling  very  much  exhilarated.  He  never  before  had 
gone  courting  in  this  direct  and  aboveboard  fashion.  He  mistook 
the  father's  hospitality  for  compliance  in  his  designs.  He  followed 
his  host  into  the  house,  and  faced,  with  very  fair  composure,  two 
girls  who  smiled  broadly  as  they  shook  hands  with  him.  Mrs. 
Kennedy  gave  him  a  lax  hand  and  a  curt  how-de-do,  and  Lucindy 
fairly  scowled  in  answer  to  his  radiant  smile. 

She  was  much  changed,  he  could  see.  She  wore  a  dress  with 
puffed  sleeves,  and  her  hair  was  dressed  differently.  She  seemed 
strange  and  distant,  but  he  thought  she  was  "putting  that  on"  for 
the  benefit  of  others.  At  the  table  the  three  girls  talked  of  things 
at  the  Siding,  and  ignored  him  so  that  he  was  obliged  to  turn 
to  Farmer  Kennedy  for  refuge.  He  kept  his  courage  up  by  think- 
ing, "Wait  till  we  are  alone." 

After  supper,  when  Lucindy  explained  that  the  dishes  would 
have  to  be  washed,  he  offered  to  help  her  in  his  best  manner. 

"Thank  you,  I  don't  need  any  help,"  was  Lucindy's  curt  reply. 

Ordinarily  he  was  a  man  of  much  facility  and  ease  in  address- 
ing women,  but  he  was  vastly  disconcerted  by  her  manner.  He 
sat  rather  silently  waiting  for  the  room  to  clear.  When  the  visitors 
intimated  that  they  must  go,  he  rose  with  cheerful  alacrity. 

"I'll  get  your  horse  for  you." 


The  Creamery  Man  159 

He  helped  hitch  the  horse  into  the  buggy,  and  helped  the  girls 
in  with  a  return  of  easy  gallantry,  and  watched  them  drive  off 
with  joy.  At  last  the  field  was  clear. 

They  returned  to  the  sitting  room,  where  the  old  folks  re- 
mained for  a  decent  interval,  and  then  left  the  young  people  alone. 
His  courage  returned  then,  and  he  turned  toward  her  with  resolu- 
tion in  his  voice  and  eyes. 

"Lucindy,"  he  began. 

"Miss  Kennedy,  please,"  interrupted  Lucindy,  with  cutting 
emphasis. 

"I'll  be  darned  if  I  do,"  he  replied  hotly.  "What's  the  matter 
with  you?  Since  going  to  Minneapolis  you  put  on  a  lot  of  city  airs, 
it  seems  to  me." 

"If  you  don't  like  my  airs,  you  know  what  you  can  do !" 

He  saw  his  mistake. 

"Now  see  here,  Lucindy,  there's  no  sense  in  our  quarreling." 

"I  don't  want  to  quarrel ;  I  don't  want  anything  to  do  with  you. 
I  wish  I'd  never  seen  you." 

"Oh,  you  don't  mean  that!  after  all  the  good  talks  we've  had." 

She  flushed  red.  "I  never  had  any  such  talks  with  you." 

He  pursued  his  advantage. 

"Oh,  yes,  you  did,  and  you  took  pains  that  I  should  see  you." 

"I  didn't;  no  such  thing.  You  came  poking  into  the  kitchen 
where  you'd  no  business  to  be." 

"Say,  now,  stop  fooling.  You  like  me  and " 

"I  don't.  I  hate  you,  and  if  you  don't  clear  out  I'll  call  father. 
You're  one  o'  these  kind  o'  men  that  think  if  a  girl  looks  at  'em 
that  they  want  to  marry  'em.  I  tell  you  I  don't  want  anything 
more  to  do  with  you,  and  I'm  engaged  to  another  man,  and  I 
wish  you'd  attend  to  your  own  business.  So  there.  I  hope  you're 
satisfied." 

Claude  sat  for  nearly  a  minute  in  silence,  then  he  rose.  "I 
guess  you're  right.  I've  made  a  mistake.  I've  made  a  mistake  in  the 
girl."  He  spoke  with  a  curious  hardness  in  his  voice.  "Good- 
evening,  Miss  Kennedy." 

He  went  out  with  dignity  and  in  good  order.  His  retreat 


160  Main-Travelled  Roads 

not  ludicrous.  He  left  the  girl  with  the  feeling  that  she  had  lost 
her  temper,  and  with  the  knowledge  that  she  had  uttered  a  lie. 

He  put  his  horses  to  the  buggy  with  a  mournful  self-pity  as  he 
saw  the  wheels  glisten.  He  had  done  all  this  for  a  scornful  girl 
who  could  not  treat  him  decently.  As  he  drove  slowly  down  the 
road  he  mused  deeply.  It  was  a  knock-down  blow,  surely.  He  was 
a  just  man,  so  far  as  he  knew,  and  as  he  studied  the  situation  over 
he  could  not  blame  the  girl.  In  the  light  of  her  convincing  wrath 
he  comprehended  that  the  sharp  things  she  had  said  to  him  in  the 
past  were  not  make-believe — not  love-taps,  but  real  blows.  She 
had  not  been  coquetting  with  him;  she  had  tried  to  keep  him 
away.  She  considered  herself  too  good  for  a  hired  man.  Well, 
maybe  she  was.  Anyhow,  she  had  gone  out  of  his  reach,  hopelessly. 

As  he  came  past  the  Haldemans'  he  saw  Nina  sitting  out  under 
the  trees  in  the  twilight.  On  the  impulse  he  pulled  in.  His  mind 
took  another  turn.  Here  was  a  woman  who  was  open  and  above- 
board  in  her  affection.  Her  words  meant  what  they  stood  for. 
He  remembered  how  she  had  bloomed  out  the  last  few  months. 
She  has  the  making  of  a  handsome  woman  in  her,  he  thought. 

She  saw  him  and  came  out  to  the  gate,  and  while  he  leaned 
out  of  his  carriage  she  rested  her  arms  on  the  gate  and  looked 
up  at  him.  She  looked  pale  and  sad,  and  he  was  touched. 

"How's  the  old  lady?"  he  asked. 

"Oh,  she's  up!  She  is  much  change-ed.  She  is  veak  and  quiet." 

"Quiet,  is  she?  Well,  that's  good." 

"She  t'inks  God  strike  her  fer  her  vickedness.  Never  before  did 
she  fainted  like  dot." 

"Well,  don't  spoil  that  notion  in  her.  It  may  do  her  a  world 
of  good." 

"Der  priest  come.  He  saidt  it  wass  a  punishment.  She  saidt  I 
should  marry  who  I  like." 

Claude  looked  at  her  searchingly.  She  was  certainly  much  im- 
proved. All  she  needed  was  a  little  encouragement  and  advice  and 
she  would  make  a  handsome  wife.  If  the  old  lady  had  softened 
down,  her  son-in-law  could  safely  throw  up  the  creamery  job  and 


The  Creamery  Man  161 

become  the  boss  of  the  farm.  The  old  man  was  used  up,  and  the 
farm  needed  some  one  right  away. 

He  straightened  up  suddenly.  "Get  your  hat,"  he  said,  "and 
we'll  take  a  ride." 

She  started  erect,  and  he  could  see  her  pale  face  glow  with  joy. 

"With  you?" 

"With  me.  Get  your  best  hat.  We  may  turn  up  at  the  minister's 
and  get  married — if  a  Sunday  marriage  is  legal." 

As  she  hurried  up  the  walk  he  said  to  himself, 

"I'll  bet  it  gives  Lucindy  a  shock!" 

And  the  thought  pleased  him  mightily. 


A  DAY'S  PLEASURE 

WHEN  Markham  came  in  from  shovelling  his  last  wagon-load 
of  corn  into  the  crib  he  found  that  his  wife  had  put  the  children 
to  bed,  and  was  kneading  a  batch  of  dough  with  the  dogged  action 
of  a  tired  and  sullen  woman. 

He  slipped  his  soggy  boots  off  his  feet,  and  having  laid  a  piece 
of  wood  on  top  of  the  stove,  put  his  heels  on  it  comfortably.  His 
chair  squeaked  as  he  leaned  back  on  its  hinder  legs,  but  he  paid  no 
attention;  he  was  used  to  it,  exactly  as  he  was  used  to  his  wife's 
lameness  and  ceaseless  toil. 

"That  closes  up  my  corn,"  he  said  after  a  silence.  "I  guess  I'll 
go  to  town  to-morrow  to  git  my  horses  shod." 

"I  guess  I'll  git  ready  and  go  along,"  said  his  wife,  in  a  sorry 
attempt  to  be  firm  and  confident  of  tone. 

"What  do  you  want  to  go  to  town  fer?"  he  grumbled. 

"What  does  anybody  want  to  go  to  town  fer?"  she  burst  out, 
facing  him.  "I  ain't  been  out  o'  this  house  fer  six  months,  while 
you  go  an'  go!" 

"Oh,  it  ain't  six  months.  You  went  down  that  day  I  got  the 
mower." 

"When  was  that?  The  tenth  of  July,  and  you  know  it." 

"Well,  mebbe  'twas.  I  didn't  think  it  was  so  long  ago.  I  ain't 
no  objection  to  your  goin',  only  I'm  goin'  to  take  a  load  of 
wheat." 

"Well,  jest  leave  off  a  sack,  an'  that'll  balance  me  an'  the 
baby,"  she  said  spiritedly. 

"All  right,"  he  replied  good-naturedly,  seeing  she  was  roused. 
aOnly  that  wheat  ought  to  be  put  up  to-night  if  you're  goin'. 
You  won't  have  any  time  to  hold  sacks  for  me  in  the  morning 
with  them  young  ones  to  get  off  to  school." 

"Well,  let's  go  do  it  then,"  she  said,  sullenly  resolute. 

162 


A  Day's  Pleasure  163 

"I  hate  to  go  out  agin;  but  I  s'pose  we'd  better." 

He  yawned  dismally  and  began  pulling  his  boots  on  again, 
stamping  his  swollen  feet  into  them  with  grunts  of  pain.  She  put 
on  his  coat  and  one  of  the  boy's  caps,  and  they  went  out  to  the 
granary.  The  night  was  cold  and  clear. 

"Don't  look  so  much  like  snow  as  it  did  last  night,"  said  Sam. 
"It  may  turn  warm." 

Laying  out  the  sacks  in  the  light  of  the  lantern,  they  sorted  out 
those  which  were  whole,  and  Sam  climbed  into  the  bin  with  a 
tin  pail  in  his  hand,  and  the  work  began. 

He  was  a  sturdy  fellow,  and  he  worked  desperately  fast;  the 
shining  tin  pail  dived  deep  into  the  cold  wheat  and  dragged 
heavily  on  the  woman's  tired  hands  as  it  came  to  the  mouth  of 
the  sack,  and  she  trembled  with  fatigue,  but  held  on  and  dragged 
the  sacks  away  when  filled,  and  brought  others,  till  at  last  Sam 
climbed  out,  puffing  and  wheezing,  to  tie  them  up. 

"I  guess  I'll  load  'em  in  the  morning,"  he  said.  "You  needn't 
wait  fer  me.  I'll  tie  'em  up  alone." 

"Oh,  I  don't  mind,"  she  replied,  feeling  a  little  touched  by 
his  unexpectedly  easy  acquiescence  to  her  request.  When  they  went 
back  to  the  house  the  moon  had  risen. 

It  had  scarcely  set  when  they  were  wakened  by  the  crowing 
roosters.  The  man  rolled  stiffly  out  of  bed  and  began  rattling 
at  the  stove  in  the  dark,  cold  kitchen. 

His  wife  arose  lamer  and  stiffer  than  usual,  and  began  twist- 
ing her  thin  hair  into  a  knot. 

Sam  did  not  stop  to  wash,  but  went  out  to  the  barn.  The 
woman,  however,  hastily  soused  her  face  into  the  hard  limestone 
water  at  the  sink,  and  put  the  kettle  on.  Then  she  called  the  chil- 
dren. She  knew  it  was  early,  and  they  would  need  several  call- 
ings. She  pushed  breakfast  forward,  running  over  in  her  mind 
the  things  she  must  have :  two  spools  of  thread,  six  yards  of  cotton 
flannel,  a  can  of  coffee,  and  mittens  for  Kitty.  These  she  must 
have — there  were  oceans  of  things  she  needed. 

The  children  soon  came  scudding  down  out  of  the  darkness  of 
the  upstairs  to  dress  tumultuously  at  the  kitchen  stove.  They 


164  Main-Travelled  Roads 

humped  and  shivered,  holding  up  their  bare  feet  from  the  cold 
floor,  like  chickens  in  new  fallen  snow.  They  were  irritable,  and 
snarled  and  snapped  and  struck  like  cats  and  dogs.  Mrs.  Mark- 
ham  stood  it  for  a  while  with  mere  commands  to  "hush  up,"  but 
at  last  her  patience  gave  out,  and  she  charged  down  on  the 
struggling  mob  and  cuffed  them  right  and  left. 

They  ate  their  breakfast  by  lamplight,  and  when  Sam  went 
back  to  his  work  around  the  barnyard  it  was  scarcely  dawn.  The 
children,  left  alone  with  their  mother,  began  to  tease  her  to  let 
them  go  to  town  also. 

"No,  sir — nobody  goes  but  baby.  Your  father's  goin*  to  take 
a  load  of  wheat." 

She  was  weak  with  the  worry  of  it  all  when  she  had  sent  the 
older  children  away  to  school  and  the  kitchen  work  was  finished. 
She  went  into  the  cold  bedroom  off  the  little  sitting  room  and 
put  on  her  best  dress.  It  had  never  been  a  good  fit,  and  now  she 
was  getting  so  thin  it  hung  in  wrinkled  folds  everywhere  about 
the  shoulders  and  waist.  She  lay  down  on  the  bed  a  moment  to 
ease  that  dull  pain  in  her  back.  She  had  a  moment's  distaste  for 
going  out  at  all.  The  thought  of  sleep  was  more  alluring.  Then 
the  thought  of  the  long,  long  day,  and  the  sickening  sameness  of 
her  life,  swept  over  her  again,  and  she  rose  and  prepared  the  baby 
for  the  journey. 

It  was  but  little  after  sunrise  when  Sam  drove  out  into  the 
road  and  started  for  Belleplain.  His  wife  sat  perched  upon  the 
wheat-sacks  behind  him,  holding  the  baby  in  her  lap,  a  cotton 
quilt  under  her,  and  a  cotton  horse-blanket  over  her  knees. 

Sam  was  disposed  to  be  very  good-natured,  and  he  talked  back 
at  her  occasionally,  though  she  could  only  understand  him  when 
he  turned  his  face  toward  her.  The  baby  stared  out  at  the  passing 
fence-posts,  and  wiggled  his  hands  out  of  his  mittens  at  every 
opportunity.  He  was  merry  at  least. 

It  grew  warmer  as  they  went  on,  and  a  strong  south  wind 
arose.  The  dust  settled  upon  the  woman's  shawl  and  hat.  Her  hair 
loosened  and  blew  unkemptly  about  her  face.  The  road  which 
led  across  the  high,  level  prairie  was  quite  smooth  and  dry,  but 


A  Day's  Pleasure  165 

still  it  jolted  her,  and  the  pain  in  her  back  increased.  She  had 
nothing  to  lean  against,  and  the  weight  of  the  child  grew  greater, 
till  she  was  forced  to  place  him  on  the  sacks  beside  her,  though 
she  could  not  loose  her  hold  for  a  moment. 

The  town  drew  in  sight — a  cluster  of  small  frame  houses  and 
stores  on  the  dry  prairie  beside  a  railway  station.  There  were  no 
trees  yet  which  could  be  called  shade  trees.  The  pitilessly  severe 
light  of  the  sun  flooded  everything.  A  few  teams  were  hitched 
about,  and  in  the  lee  of  the  stores  a  few  men  could  be  seen  seated 
comfortably,  their  broad  hat-rims  flopping  up  and  down,  their 
faces  brown  as  leather. 

Markham  put  his  wife  out  at  one  of  the  grocery-stores,  and 
drove  off  down  toward  the  elevators  to  sell  his  wheat. 

The  grocer  greeted  Mrs.  Markham  in  a  perfunctorily  kind 
manner,  and  offered  her  a  chair,  which  she  took  gratefully.  She 
sat  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour  almost  without  moving,  leaning 
against  the  back  of  the  high  chair.  At  last  the  child  began  to  get 
restless  and  troublesome,  and  she  spent  half  an  hour  helping  him 
amuse  himself  around  the  nail-kegs. 

At  length  she  rose  and  went  out  on  the  walk,  carrying  the  baby. 
She  went  into  the  dry-goods  store  and  took  a  seat  on  one  of  the 
little  revolving  stools.  A  woman  was  buying  some  woollen  goods 
for  a  dress.  It  was  worth  twenty-seven  cents  a  yard,  the  clerk 
said,  but  he  would  knock  off  two  cents  if  she  took  ten  yards.  It 
looked  warm,  and  Mrs.  Markham  wished  she  could  afford  it  for 
Mary. 

A  pretty  young  girl  came  in  and  laughed  and  chatted  with  the 
clerk,  and  bought  a  pair  of  gloves.  She  was  the  daughter  of  the 
grocer.  Her  happiness  made  the  wife  and  mother  sad.  When  Sam 
came  back  she  asked  him  for  some  money. 

"What  you  want  to  do  with  it?"  he  asked. 

"I  want  to  spend  it,"  she  said. 

She  was  not  to  be  trifled  with,  so  he  gave  her  a  dollar. 

"I  need  a  dollar  more." 

"Well,  I've  got  to  go  take  up  that  note  at  the  bank." 


1 66  Main-Travelled  Roads 

"Well,  the  children's  got  to  have  some  new  underclo'es,"  she 
said. 

He  handed  her  a  two-dollar  bill  and  then  went  out  to  pay  his 
note. 

She  bought  her  cotton  flannel  and  mittens  and  thread,  and  then 
sat  leaning  against  the  counter.  It  was  noon,  and  she  was  hungry. 
She  went  out  to  the  wagon,  got  the  lunch  she  had  brought,  and 
took  it  into  the  grocery  to  eat  it — where  she  could  get  a  drink  of 
water. 

The  grocer  gave  the  baby  a  stick  of  candy  and  handed  the  mother 
an  apple. 

"It'll  kind  o'  go  down  with  your  doughnuts,"  he  said. 

After  eating  her  lunch  she  got  up  and  went  out.  She  felt 
ashamed  to  sit  there  any  longer.  She  entered  another  dry-goods 
store,  but  when  the  clerk  came  toward  her  saying,  "Anything 

to-day,  Mrs. ?"  she  answered,  "No,  I  guess  not,"  and  turned 

away  with  foolish  face. 

She  walked  up  and  down  the  street,  desolately  homeless.  She 
did  not  know  what  to  do  with  herself.  She  knew  no  one  except 
the  grocer.  She  grew  bitter  as  she  saw  a  couple  of  ladies  pass,  hold- 
ing their  demi-trains  in  the  latest  city  fashion.  Another  woman 
went  by  pushing  a  baby  carriage,  in  which  sat  a  child  just  about  as 
big  as  her  own.  It  was  bouncing  itself  up  and  down  on  the  long 
slender  springs,  and  laughing  and  shouting.  Its  clean  round  face 
glowed  from  its  pretty  fringed  hood.  She  looked  down  at  the 
dusty  clothes  and  grimy  face  of  her  own  little  one,  and  walked 
on  savagely. 

She  went  into  the  drug  store  where  the  soda  fountain  was, 
but  it  made  her  thirsty  to  sit  there  and  she  went  out  on  the  street 
again.  She  heard  Sam  laugh,  and  saw  him  in  a  group  of  men  over 
by  the  blacksmith  shop.  He  was  having  a  good  time  and  had  for- 
gotten her. 

Her  back  ached  so  intolerably  that  she  concluded  to  go  in  and 
rest  once  more  in  the  grocer's  chair.  The  baby  was  growing  cross 
and  fretful.  She  bought  five  cents'  worth  of  candy  to  take  home  to 
the  children,  and  gave  baby  a  little  piece  to  keep  him  quiet.  She 


A  Day's  Pleasure  167 

wished  Sam  would  come.  It  must  be  getting  late.  The  grocer  said 
it  was  not  much  after  one.  Time  seemed  terribly  long.  She  felt 
that  she  ought  to  do  something  while  she  was  in  town.  She  ran 
over  her  purchases — yes,  that  was  all  she  had  planned  to  buy.  She 
fell  to  figuring  on  the  things  she  needed.  It  was  terrible.  It  ran 
away  up  into  twenty  or  thirty  dollars  at  the  least.  Sam,  as  well  as 
she,  needed  underwear  for  the  cold  winter,  but  they  would  have 
to  wear  the  old  ones,  even  if  they  were  thin  and  ragged.  She 
would  not  need  a  dress,  she  thought  bitterly,  because  she  never 
went  anywhere.  She  rose  and  went  out  on  the  street  once  more, 
and  wandered  up  and  down,  looking  at  everything  in  the  hope 
of  enjoying  something. 

A  man  from  Boon  Creek  backed  a  load  of  apples  up  to  the 
sidewalk,  and  as  he  stood  waiting  for  the  grocer  he  noticed  Mrs. 
Markham  and  the  baby,  and  gave  the  baby  an  apple.  This  was  a 
pleasure.  He  had  such  a  hearty  way  about  him.  He  on  his  part 
saw  an  ordinary  farmer's  wife  with  dusty  dress,  unkempt  hair, 
and  tired  face.  He  did  not  know  exactly  why  she  appealed  to 
him,  but  he  tried  to  cheer  her  up. 

The  grocer  was  familiar  with  these  bedraggled  and  weary 
wives.  He  was  accustomed  to  see  them  sit  for  hours  in  his  big 
wooden  chair,  and  nurse  tired  and  fretful  children.  Their  for- 
lorn, aimless,  pathetic  wandering  up  and  down  the  street  was  a 
daily  occurrence,  and  had  never  possesed  any  special  meaning  to 
him. 

II 

In  a  cottage  around  the  corner  from  the  grocery  store  two  men 
and  a  woman  were  finishing  a  dainty  luncheon.  The  woman  was 
dressed  in  cool,  white  garments,  and  she  seemed  to  make  the  day 
one  of  perfect  comfort. 

The  home  of  the  Honorable  Mr.  Hall  was  by  no  means  the 
costliest  in  the  town,  but  his  wife  made  it  the  most  attractive. 
He  was  one  of  the  leading  lawyers  of  the  county,  and  a  man  of 
culture  and  progressive  views.  He  was  entertaining  a  friend  who 
had  lectured  the  night  before  in  the  Congregational  church. 


1 68  Main-Travelled  Roads 

They  were  by  no  means  in  serious  discussion.  The  talk  was 
rather  frivolous.  Hall  had  the  ability  to  caricature  men  with  a 
few  gestures  and  attitudes,  and  was  giving  to  his  Eastern  friend 
some  descriptions  of  the  old-fashioned  Western  lawyers  he  had 
met  in  his  practice.  He  was  very  amusing,  and  his  guest  laughed 
heartily  for  a  time. 

But  suddenly  Hall  became  aware  that  Otis  was  not  listening. 
Then  he  perceived  that  he  was  peering  out  of  the  window  at 
some  one,  and  that  on  his  face  a  look  of  bitter  sadness  was  falling. 

Hall  stopped.  "What  do  you  see,  Otis?" 

Otis  replied,  "I  see  a  forlorn,  weary  woman.'* 

Mrs.  Hall  rose  and  went  to  the  window.  Mrs.  Markham  was 
walking  by  the  house,  her  baby  in  her  arms.  Savage  anger  and 
weeping  were  in  her  eyes  and  on  her  lips,  and  there  was  hopeless 
tragedy  in  her  shambling  walk  and  weak  back. 

In  the  silence  Otis  went  on:  "I  saw  the  poor,  dejected  creature 
twice  this  morning.  I  couldn't  forget  her." 

"Who  is  she?"  asked  Mrs.  Hall,  very  softly. 

"Her  name  is  Markham;  she's  Sam  Markham's  wife,"  said  Hall. 

The  young  wife  led  the  way  into  the  sitting  room,  and  the  men 
took  seats  and  lit  their  cigars.  Hall  was  meditating  a  diversion 
when  Otis  resumed  suddenly: 

"That  woman  came  to  town  to-day  to  get  a  change,  to  have  a 
little  play-spell,  and  she's  wandering  around  like  a  starved  and 
weary  cat.  I  wonder  if  there  is  a  woman  in  this  town  with 
sympathy  enough  and  courage  enough  to  go  out  and  help  that 
woman?  The  saloon-keepers,  the  politicians,  and  the  grocers  make 
it  pleasant  for  the  man — so  pleasant  that  he  forgets  his  wife.  But 
the  wife  is  left  without  a  word." 

Mrs.  Hall's  work  dropped,  and  on  her  pretty  face  was  a  look 
of  pain.  The  man's  harsh  words  had  wounded  her — and  wakened 
her.  She  took  up  her  hat  and  hurried  out  on  the  walk.  The  men 
looked  at  each  other,  and  then  the  husband  said: 

"It's  going  to  be  a  little  sultry  for  the  men  around  these  dig- 
gings. Suppose  we  go  out  for  a  walk." 

Delia  felt  a  hand  on  her  arm  as  she  stood  at  the  corner. 


A  Day's  Pleasure  169 

"You  look  tired,  Mrs.  Markham;  won't  you  come  in  a  little 
while?  I'm  Mrs.  Hall." 

Mrs.  Markham  turned  with  a  scowl  on  her  face  and  a  biting 
word  on  her  tongue,  but  something  in  the  sweet,  round  little  face 
of  the  other  woman  silenced  her,  and  her  brow  smoothed  out. 

"Thank  you  kindly,  but  it's  most  time  to  go  home.  I'm  looking 
fer  Mr.  Markham  now." 

"Oh,  come  in  a  little  while,  the  baby  is  cross  and  tired  out; 
please  do." 

Mrs.  Markham  yielded  to  the  friendly  voice,  and  together  the 
two  women  reached  the  gate  just  as  two  men  hurriedly  turned 
the  other  corner. 

"Let  me  relieve  you,"  said  Mrs.  Hall. 

The  mother  hesitated:  "He's  so  dusty." 

"Oh,  that  won't  matter.  Oh,  what  a  big  fellow  he  is!  I  haven't 
any  of  my  own,"  said  Mrs.  Hall,  and  a  look  passed  like  an  electric 
spark  between  the  two  women,  and  Delia  was  her  willing  guest 
from  that  moment. 

They  went  into  the  little  sitting  room,  so  dainty  and  lovely  to 
the  farmer's  wife,  and  as  she  sank  into  an  easy-chair  she  was  faint 
and  drowsy  with  the  pleasure  of  it.  She  submitted  to  being  brushed. 
She  gave  the  baby  into  the  hands  of  the  Swedish  girl,  who  washed 
its  face  and  hands  and  sang  it  to  sleep,  while  its  mother  sipped 
some  tea.  Through  it  all  she  lay  back  in  her  easy-chair,  not  speak- 
ing a  word,  while  the  ache  passed  out  of  her  back,  and  her  hot, 
swollen  head  ceased  to  throb. 

But  she  saw  everything — the  piano,  the  pictures,  the  curtains, 
the  wall-paper,  the  little  tea-stand.  They  were  almost  as  grate- 
ful to  her  as  the  food  and  fragrant  tea.  Such  housekeeping  as 
this  she  had  never  seen.  Her  mother  had  worn  her  kitchen  floor 
thin  as  brown  paper  in  keeping  a  speckless  house,  and  she  had 
been  in  houses  that  were  larger  and  costlier,  but  something  of 
the  charm  of  her  hostess  was  in  the  arrangement  of  vases,  chairs, 
or  pictures.  It  was  tasteful. 

Mrs.  Hall  did  not  ask  about  her  affairs.  She  talked  to  her  about 
rhe  sturdy  little  baby,  and  about  the  things  upon  which  Delia's 


170  Main-Travelled  Roads 

eyes  dwelt.  If  she  seemed  interested  in  a  vase  she  was  told  what 
it  was  and  where  it  was  made.  She  was  shown  all  the  pictures  and 
books.  Mrs.  Hall  seemed  to  read  her  visitor's  mind.  She  kept  as  far 
from  the  farm  and  her  guest's  affairs  as  possible,  and  at  last  she 
opened  the  piano  and  sang  to  her — not  slow-moving  hymns,  but 
catchy  love-songs  full  of  sentiment,  and  then  played  some  simple 
melodies,  knowing  that  Mrs.  Markham's  eyes  were  studying  her 
hands,  her  rings,  and  the  flash  of  her  ringers  on  the  keys — seeing 
more  than  she  heard — and  through  it  all  Mrs.  Hall  conveyed  the 
impression  that  she,  too,  was  having  a  good  time. 

The  rattle  of  the  wagon  outside  roused  them  both.  Sam  was 
at  the  gate  for  her.  Mrs.  Markharn  rose  hastily.  "Oh,  it's  almost 
sundown!"  she  gasped  in  astonishment  as  she  looked  out  of  the 
window. 

1  'Oh,  that  won't  kill  anybody,"  replied  her  hostess.  "Don't 
hurry.  Carrie,  take  the  baby  out  to  the  wagon  for  Mrs.  Mark- 
ham  while  I  help  her  with  her  things." 

"Oh,  I've  had  such  a  good  time,"  Mrs.  Markham  said  as  they 
went  down  the  little  walk. 

"So  have  I,"  replied  Mrs.  Hall.  She  took  the  baby  a  moment  as 
her  guest  climbed  in.  "Oh,  you  big,  fat  fellow!"  she  cried  as  she 
gave  him  a  squeeze.  "You  must  bring  your  wife  in  oftener,  Mr. 
Markham,"  she  said,  as  she  handed  the  baby  up. 

Sam  was  staring  with  amazement. 

"Thank  you,  I  will,"  he  finally  managed  to  say. 

"Good-night,"  said  Mrs.  Markham. 

"Good-night,  dear,"  called  Mrs.  Hall,  and  the  wagon  began  to 
rattle  off. 

The  tenderness  and  sympathy  in  her  voice  brought  the  tears 
to  Delia's  eyes — not  hot  or  bitter  tears,  but  tears  that  cooled  her 
eyes  and  cleared  her  mind. 

The  wind  had  gone  down,  and  the  red  sunlight  fell  mistily 
over  the  world  of  corn  and  stubble.  The  crickets  were  still  chirp- 
ing and  the  feeding  cattle  were  drifting  toward  the  farmyards, 
The  day  had  been  made  beautiful  by  human  sympathy. 


MRS.  RIPLEY'S  TRIP 

THE  night  was  in  windy  November,  and  the  blast,  threaten- 
ing rain,  roared  around  the  poor  little  shanty  of  Uncle  Ripley, 
set  like  a  chicken-trap  on  the  vast  Iowa  prairie.  Uncle  Ethan  was 
mending  his  old  violin,  with  many  York  State  "dums!"  and  "I 
gol  darns!"  totally  oblivious  of  his  tireless  old  wife,  who,  having 
"finished  the  supper-dishes,"  sat  knitting  a  stocking,  evidently  for 
the  little  grandson  who  lay  before  the  stove  like  a  cat. 

Neither  of  the  old  people  wore  glasses,  and  their  light  was  a 
tallow  candle;  they  couldn't  afford  "none  o'  them  new-fangled 
lamps."  The  room  was  small,  the  chairs  were  wooden,  and  the 
walls  bare — a  home  where  poverty  was  a  never-absent  guest.  The 
old  lady  looked  pathetically  little,  weazened,  and  hopeless  in  her 
ill-fitting  garments  (whose  original  color  had  long  since  vanished), 
intent  as  she  was  on  the  stocking  in  her  knotted,  stiffened  fingers, 
and  there  was  a  peculiar  sparkle  in  her  little  black  eyes,  and  an 
unusual  resolution  in  the  straight  line  of  her  withered  and  shape- 
less lips. 

Suddenly  she  paused,  stuck  a  needle  in  the  spare  knob  of  her 
hair  at  the  back  of  her  head,  and  looking  at  Ripley,  said  de- 
cisively: "Ethan  Ripley,  you'll  haff  to  do  your  own  cooking  from 
now  on  to  New  Year's.  I'm  goin'  back  to  Yaark  State." 

The  old  man's  leather-brown  face  stiffened  into  a  look  of 
quizzical  surprise  for  a  moment;  then  he  cackled,  incredulously: 
"Ho!  Ho!  har!  Sho!  be  y',  now?  I  want  to  know  if  y'  be." 

"Well,  you'll  find  out." 

"Goin'  to  start  to-morrow,  mother?" 

"No,  sir,  I  ain't;  but  I  am  on  Thursday.  I  want  to  get  to 
Sally's  by  Sunday,  sure,  an'  to  Silas's  on  Thanksgivin'." 

There  was  a  note  in  the  old  woman's  voice  that  brought  genuine 
stupefaction  into  the  face  of  Uncle  Ripley.  Of  course  in  thij 
case,  as  in  all  others,  the  money  consideration  was  uppermost. 

171 


172  Main-Travelled  Roads 

"Howgy  'xpect  to  get  the  money,  mother?  Anybody  died  an* 
left  yeh  a  pile?" 

"Never  you  mind  where  I  get  the  money,  so  *s  *t  you  don't  haff 
to  bear  it.  The  land  knows  if  I'd  'a'  waited  for  you  to  pay  my 
way " 

"You  needn't  twit  me  of  bein'  poor,  old  woman,"  said  Ripley, 
flaming  up  after  the  manner  of  many  old  people.  "I've  done  my 
part  tj  get  along.  I've  worked  day  in  and  day  out " 

"Oh!  I  ain't  done  no  work,  have  I?"  snapped  she,  laying  down 
the  stocking  and  levelling  a  needle  at  him,  and  putting  a  fright- 
ful emphasis  on  "I." 

"I  didn't  say  you  hadn't  done  no  work." 

"Yes,  you  did!" 

"I  didn't  neither.  I  said " 

"I  know  what  you  said." 

"I  said  I'd  done  my  part\"  roared  the  husband,  dominating  her 
as  usual  by  superior  lung  power.  "I  didn't  say  you  hadn't  done 
your  part,"  he  added  with  an  unfortunate  touch  of  emphasis. 

"I  know  y'  didn't  say  it,  but  y'  meant  it.  I  don't  know  what  y' 
call  doin'  my  part,  Ethan  Ripley;  but  if  cookin'  for  a  drove  of 
harvest  hands  and  thrashin'  hands,  takin'  care  o'  the  eggs  and  but- 
ter, 'n'  diggin'  'taters  an'  milkin'  ain't  my  part,  I  don't  never 
expect  to  do  my  part,  'n'  you  might  as  well  know  it  fust  's  last. 

"I'm  sixty  years  old,"  she  went  on,  with  a  little  break  in  her 
harsh  voice,  dominating  him  now  by  woman's  logic,  "an'  I've 
never  had  a  day  to  myself,  not  even  Fourth  o'  July.  If  I've  went- 
a-visitin'  'r  to  a  picnic,  I've  had  to  come  home  an'  milk  'n'  get 
supper  for  you  men-folks.  I  ain't  been  away  't  stay  overnight  for 
thirteen  years  in  this  house,  'n'  it  was  just  so  in  Davis  County  for 
ten  more.  For  twenty- three  years,  Ethan  Ripley,  I've  stuck  right 
to  the  stove  an'  churn  without  a  day  or  a  night  off." 

Her  voice  choked  again,  but  she  rallied,  and  continued  impres- 
sively, "And  now  I'm  a-goin'  back  to  Yaark  State." 

Ethan  was  vanquished.  He  stared  at  her  in  speechless  surprise, 
his  jaw  hanging.  It  was  incredible. 

"For  twenty-three  years,"  she  went  on,  musingly,  "I've  just 


Mrs.  Ripley's  Trip  173 

about  promised  myself  every  year  I'd  go  back  an*  see  my  folks." 
She  was  distinctly  talking  to  herself  now,  and  her  voice  had  a 
touching,  wistful  cadence.  "I've  wanted  to  go  back  an'  see  the  old 
folks,  an'  the  hills  where  we  played,  an'  eat  apples  off  the  old  tree 
down  by  the  well.  I've  had  them  trees  an'  hills  in  my  mind  days 
and  days — nights,  too — an'  the  girls  I  used  to  know,  an'  my  own 
folks " 

She  fell  into  a  silent  muse,  which  lasted  so  long  that  the  ticking 
of  the  clock  grew  loud  as  a  gong  in  the  man's  ears,  and  the  wind 
outside  seemed  to  sound  drearier  than  usual.  He  returned  to  the 
money  problem;  kindly,  though. 

"But  how  y'  goin'  t'  raise  the  money?  I  ain't  got  no  extra  cash 
this  time.  Agin  Roach  is  paid,  an'  the  interest  paid,  we  ain't  got 
no  hundred  dollars  to  spare,  Jane,  not  by  a  jugful." 

"Wai,  don't  you  lay  awake  nights  studyin'  on  where  I'm  a-goin* 
to  get  the  money,"  said  the  old  woman,  taking  delight  in  mystify- 
ing him.  She  had  him  now,  and  he  couldn't  escape.  He  strove  to 
show  his  indifference,  however,  by  playing  a  tune  or  two  on  the 
violin. 

"Come,  Tukey,  you  better  climb  the  wooden  hill,"  Mrs.  Ripley 
said,  a  half-hour  later,  to  the  little  chap  on  the  floor,  who  was 
beginning  to  get  drowsy  under  the  influence  of  his  grandpa's 
fiddling.  "Pa,  you  had  orta  'a'  put  that  string  in  the  clock 
to-day — on  the  'larm  side  the  string  is  broke,"  she  said,  upon  re- 
turning from  the  boy's  bedroom.  "I  orta  git  up  early  to-morrow, 
to  git  some  sewin'  done.  Land  knows,  I  can't  fix  up  much,  but 
they  is  a  little  I  c'n  do.  I  want  to  look  decent." 

They  were  alone  now,  and  they  both  sat  expectantly. 

"You  'pear  to  think,  mother,  that  I'm  agin  yer  goin'." 

"Wai,  it  would  kinder  seem  as  if  y'  hadn't  hustled  yerself  any 
t'  help  me  git  off." 

He  was  smarting  under  the  sense  of  being  wronged.  "Wai,  I'm 
just  as  willin'  you  should  go  as  I  am  for  myself,  but  if  I  ain't 
got  no  money  I  don't  see  how  I'm  goin'  to  send " 

"I  don't  want  ye  to  send;  nobody  ast  ye  to,  Ethan  Ripley.  I 


174  Main-Travelled  Roads 

guess  if  I  had  what  I've  earnt  since  we  came  on  this  farm  I'd  have 
enough  to  go  to  Jericho  with." 

"You've  got  as  much  out  of  it  as  I  have,"  he  replied  gently. 
"You  talk  about  your  goin'  back.  Ain't  I  been  wantin'  to  go 
back  myself?  And  ain't  I  kep'  still  'cause  I  see  it  wa'n't  no  use? 
I  guess  I've  worked  jest  as  long  and  as  hard  as  you,  an'  in  storms 
an'  in  mud  an'  heat,  ef  it  comes  t'  that." 

The  woman  was  staggered,  but  she  wouldn't  give  up ;  she  must 
get  in  one  more  thrust. 

"Wai,  if  you'd  'a'  managed  as  well  as  I  have,  you'd  have  some 
money  to  go  with."  And  she  rose  and  went  to  mix  her  bread  and 
set  it  "raisin5." 

He  sat  by  the  fire  twanging  his  fiddle  softly.  He  was  plainly 
thrown  into  gloomy  retrospection,  something  quite  unusual  for 
him.  But  his  fingers  picking  out  the  bars  of  a  familiar  tune  set 
him  to  smiling,  and  whipping  his  bow  across  the  strings,  he  for- 
got all  about  his  wife's  resolutions  and  his  own  hardships.  "Trouble 
always  slid  off  his  back  like  punkins  off  a  haystack,  anyway,"  his 
wife  said. 

The  old  man  still  sat  fiddling  softly  after  his  wife  disappeared 
in  the  hot  and  stuffy  little  bedroom  off  the  kitchen.  His  shaggy 
head  bent  lower  over  his  violin.  He  heard  her  shoes  drop — one, 
two.  Pretty  soon  she  called: 

"Come,  put  up  that  squeakin'  old  fiddle,  and  go  to  bed.  Seems 
as  if  you  orta  have  sense  enough  not  to  set  there  keepin'  everybody 
in  the  house  awake." 

"You  hush  up,"  retorted  he.  "I'll  come  when  I  git  ready,  and 
not  till.  I'll  be  glad  when  you're  gone " 

"Yes,  I  warrant  that." 

With  which  amiable  good-night  they  went  off  to  sleep,  or  at 
least  she  did,  while  he  lay  awake  pondering  on  "where  under  the 
sun  was  she  goin'  t'  raise  that  money." 

The  next  day  she  was  up  bright  and  early,  working  away  on  her 
own  affairs  ignoring  Ripley  entirely,  the  fixed  look  of  resolution 
still  on  her  little  old  wrinkled  face.  She  killed  a  hen  and  dressed 
and  baked  it.  She  fried  up  a  pan  of  doughnuts  and  made  a  cake. 


Mrs.  Ripley's  Trip  175 

She  was  engaged  in  the  doughnuts  when  a  neighbor  came  in, 
one  of  these  women  who  take  it  as  a  personal  affront  when  any 
one  in  the  neighborhood  does  anything  without  asking  their  advice. 
She  was  fat,  and  could  talk  a  man  blind  in  three  minutes  by  the 
watch.  Her  neighbor  said: 

"What's  this  I  hear,  Mis'  Ripley?" 

"I  dun  know.  I  expect  you  hear  about  all  they  is  goin'  on  in 
this  neighborhood,"  replied  Mrs.  Ripley,  with  crushing  bluntness; 
but  the  gossip  did  not  flinch. 

"Well,  Sett  Turner  told  me  that  her  husband  told  her  that 
Ripley  told  him  this  mornin'  that  you  was  goin'  back  East  on  a 
visit." 

"Wai,  what  of  it?" 

"Well,  airyeh?" 

"The  Lord  willin'  an'  the  weather  permittin',  I  expect  I  be." 

"Good  land,  I  want  to  know!  Well,  well!  I  never  was  so  as- 
tonished in  my  whole  life.  I  said,  says  I,  'It  can't  be.'  'Well,'  ses  'e, 
'that's  what  she  told  me,'  ses  'e.  'But/  ses  I,  'she  is  the  last  woman 
in  the  world  to  go  gallavantin'  off  East,'  ses  I.  'An','  ses  he,  'but 
it  comes  from  good  authority/  ses  he.  'Well,  then,  it  must  be  so/ 
ses  I.  But,  land  sakes!  do  tell  me  all  about  it.  How  come  you  to 
make  up  y'r  mind?  All  these  years  you've  been  kind  a'  talkin' 
it  over,  an'  now  y'r  actshelly  goin' — well,  I  never  I  'I  s'pose  Ripley 
furnishes  the  money/  ses  I  to  him.  'Well,  no'  ses  'e.  'Ripley  says 
he'll  be  blowed  if  he  sees  where  the  money's  coming  from/  ses  'e ; 
and  ses  I,  "But  maybe  she's  jest  jokin'/  ses  I.  'Not  much/  he 
says.  S'  'e:  'Ripley  believes  she's  goin'  fast  enough.  He's  jest  as 
anxious  to  find  out  as  we  be '  " 

Here  Mrs.  Doudney  paused  for  breath;  she  had  walked  so  fast 
and  rested  so  little  that  her  interminable  flow  of  "ses  I's"  and 
"ses  he's"  ceased  necessarily.  She  had  reached,  moreover,  the  point 
of  most  vital  interest — the  money. 

"An'  you'll  find  out  jest  'bout  as  soon  as  he  does,"  was  the 
dry  response  from  the  figure  hovering  over  the  stove;  and  with 
all  her  manoeuvring  that  was  all  she  got. 

All  day  Ripley  went  about  his  work  exceedingly  thoughtful  for 


176  Main-Travelled  Roads 

him.  It  was  cold  blustering  weather.  The  wind  rustled  among 
the  corn-stalks  with  a  wild  and  mournful  sound,  the  geese  and 
ducks  went  sprawling  down  the  wind,  and  the  horses'  coats  were 
ruffled  and  backs  raised. 

The  old  man  was  husking  all  alone  in  the  field,  his  spare  form 
rigged  out  in  two  or  three  ragged  coats,  his  hands  inserted  in  a 
pair  of  gloves  minus  nearly  all  the  fingers,  his  thumbs  done  up  in 
"stalls,"  and  his  feet  thrust  into  huge  coarse  boots.  The  "down 
ears"  wet  and  chapped  his  hands,  already  worn  to  the  quick. 
Toward  night  it  grew  colder  and  threatened  snow.  In  spite  of  all 
these  attacks  he  kept  his  cheerfulness,  and  though  he  was  very 
tired,  he  was  softened  in  temper. 

Having  plenty  of  time  to  think  matters  over,  he  had  come  to 
the  conclusion  that  the  old  woman  needed  a  play-spell.  "I  ain't 
likely  to  be  no  richer  next  year  than  I  am  this  one;  if  I  wait 
till  I'm  able  to  send  her  she  won't  never  go.  I  calc'late  I  c'n 
git  enough  out  o'  them  shoats  to  send  her.  I'd  kind  a'  lotted  on 
eat'n  them  pigs  done  up  in  sassengers,  but  if  the  oP  woman  goes 
East,  Tukey  an'  me'll  kind  a'  haff  to  pull  through  without  'em. 
We'll  have  a  turkey  f'r  Thanksgivin',  an'  a  chicken  once  'n  a 
while.  Lord!  but  we'll  miss  the  gravy  on  the  flapjacks."  (He 
smacked  his  lips  over  the  thought  of  the  lost  dainty.)  "But  let  'er 
rip !  We  can  stand  it.  Then  there  is  my  buffalo  overcoat.  I'd  kind 
a'  calc'lated  on  havin'  a  buffalo — but  that's  gone  up  the  spout 
along  with  them  sassengers." 

These  heroic  sacrifices  having  been  determined  upon,  he  put 
them  into  effect  at  once. 

This  he  was  able  to  do,  for  his  corn-rows  ran  alongside  the 
road  leading  to  Cedarville,  and  his  neighbors  were  passing  almost 
all  hours  of  the  day. 

It  would  have  softened  Jane  Ripley's  heart  could  she  have  seen 
his  bent  and  stiffened  form  among  the  corn-rows,  the  cold  wind 
piercing  to  the  bone  through  his  threadbare  and  insufficient  cloth- 
ing. The  rising  wind  sent  the  snow  rattling  among  the  moaning 
stalks  at  intervals.  The  cold  made  his  poor  dim  eyes  water,  and 
he  had  to  stop  now  and  then  to  swing  his  arms  about  his  chest 


Mrs.  Ripley's  Trip  177 

to  warm  them.  His  voice  was  hoarse  with  shouting  at  the  shiver- 
ing team. 

That  night  as  Mrs.  Ripley  was  clearing  the  dishes  away  she 
got  to  thinking  about  the  departure  of  the  next  day,  and  she  began 
to  soften.  She  gave  way  to  a  few  tears  when  little  Tewksbury 
Gilchrist,  her  grandson,  came  up  and  stood  beside  her. 

"Gran'ma,  you  ain't  goin'  to  stay  away  always,  are  yeh?" 

"Why,  course  not,  Tukey.  What  made  y'  think  that?" 

"Well,  y'  ain't  told  us  nawthin'  't  all  about  it.  An'  yeh  kind  o' 
look  's  if  yeh  was  mad." 

"Well,  I  ain't  mad;  I'm  jest  a-thinkin',  Tukey.  Y'  see,  I  come 
away  from  them  hills  when  I  was  a  little  girl  a'most;  before  I 
married  y'r  grandad.  And  I  ain't  never  been  back.  'Most  all  my 
folks  is  there,  sonny,  an'  we've  been  s'  poor  all  these  years  I 
couldn't  seem  t'  never  git  started.  Now,  when  I'm  'most  ready 
t'  go,  I  feel  kind  a  queer — 's  if  I'd  cry." 

And  cry  she  did,  while  little  Tewksbury  stood  patting  her 
trembling  hands.  Hearing  Ripley's  step  on  the  porch,  she  rose 
hastily  and,  drying  her  eyes,  plunged  at  the  work  again. 

Ripley  came  in  with  a  big  armful  of  wood,  which  he  rolled 
into  the  wood-box  with  a  thundering  crash.  Then  he  pulled  off 
his  mittens,  slapped  them  together  to  knock  off  the  ice  and  snow, 
and  laid  them  side  by  side  under  the  stove.  He  then  removed  cap, 
coat,  blouse,  and  finally  his  boots,  which  he  laid  upon  the  wood- 
box,  the  soles  turned  toward  the  stove-pipe. 

As  he  sat  down  without  speaking,  he  opened  the  front  doors  of 
the  stove,  and  held  the  palms  of  his  stiffened  hands  to  the  blaze. 
The  light  brought  out  a  thoughtful  look  on  his  large,  uncouth,  yet 
kindly,  visage.  Life  had  laid  hard  lines  on  his  brown  skin,  but  it 
had  not  entirely  soured  a  naturally  kind  and  simple  nature.  It  had 
made  him  penurious  and  dull  and  iron-muscled;  had  stifled  all 
the  slender  flowers  of  his  nature;  yet  there  was  warm  soil  some- 
where hid  in  his  heart. 

"It's  snowin'  like  all  p'ssessed,"  he  remarked  finally.  "I  guess 
we'll  have  a  sleigh-ride  to-morrow.  I  calc'late  t'  drive  y'  daown 


178  Main-Travelled  Roads 

in  scrumptious  style.  If  you  must  leave,  why,  we'll  give  yeh  a 
whoopin'  old  send-off — won't  we,  Tukey?" 

Nobody  replying,  he  waited  a  moment.  "I've  ben  a-thinkin'  things 
over  kind  o'  t'-day,  mother,  an'  I've  come  t'  the  conclusion  that 
we  have  been  kind  o'  hard  on  yeh,  without  knowin'  it,  y'  see.  Y' 
see  I'm  kind  o'  easy-goin',  an'  little  Tuke  he's  only  a  child,  an' 
we  ain't  c'nsidered  how  you  felt." 

She  didn't  appear  to  be  listening,  but  she  was,  and  he  didn't 
appear,  on  his  part,  to  be  talking  to  her,  and  he  kept  his  voice 
as  hard  and  dry  as  he  could. 

"An'  I  was  tellin'  Tukey  t'-day  that  it  was  a  dum  shame  our 
crops  hadn't  turned  out  better.  An'  when  I  saw  ol'  Hatfield  go 
by  I  hailed  him,  an'  asked  him  what  he'd  gimme  for  two  o'  m' 
shoats.  Wai,  the  upshot  is,  I  sent  t'  town  for  some  things  I  calc'- 
late  you'd  need.  An'  here's  a  ticket  to  Georgetown,  and  ten  dol- 
lars. Why,  ma,  what's  up?" 

Mrs.  Ripley  broke  down,  and  with  her  hands  all  wet  with  dish- 
water, as  they  were,  covered  her  face,  and  sobbed.  She  felt  like 
kissing  him,  but  she  didn't.  Tewksbury  began  to  whimper  too; 
but  the  old  man  was  astonished.  His  wife  had  not  wept  for  years 
(before  him).  He  rose  and  walking  clumsily  up  to  her  timidly 
touched  her  hair 

"Why,  mother!  What's  the  matter?  What  Ve  I  done  now?  I 
was  calc'latin'  to  sell  them  pigs  anyway.  Hatfield  jest  advanced 
the  money  on  'em." 

She  hopped  up  and  dashed  into  the  bedroom,  and  in  a  few 
minutes  returned  with  a  yarn  mitten,  tied  around  the  wrist,  which 
she  laid  on  the  table  with  a  thump,  saying:  "I  don't  want  yer 
money.  There's  money  enough  to  take  me  where  I  want  to  go." 

"Whee — ew!  Thunder  and  gimpsum  root!  Where  'd  ye  get 
that  ?  Didn't  dig  it  out  of  a  hole  ?" 

"No,  I  jest  saved  it — a  dime  at  a  time — see!" 

Here  she  turned  it  out  on  the  table — some  bills,  bat  mostly 
silver  dimes  and  quarters. 

"Thunder  and  scissors!  Must  be  two  er  three  hundred  dollars 
there,"  he  exclaimed. 


Mrs.  Ripley's  Trip  179 

"They's  jest  seventy-five  dollars  and  thirty  cents;  jest  about 
enough  to  go  back  on.  Tickets  is  fifty-five  dollars,  goin'  and 
comin'.  That  leaves  twenty  dollars  for  other  expenses,  not  countin' 
what  I've  already  spent,  which  is  six-fifty,"  said  she,  recovering 
her  self-possession.  "It's  plenty." 

"But  y'  ain't  calc'lated  on  no  sleepers  nor  hotel  bills." 

"I  ain't  goin'  on  no  sleeper.  Mis'  Doudney  says  it's  jest  scan- 
dalous the  way  things  is  managed  on  them  cars.  I'm  goin'  on  the 
old-fashioned  cars,  where  they  ain't  no  half-dressed  men  runnin' 
around." 

"But  you  needn't  be  afraid  of  them,  mother;  at  your  age " 

"There !  you  needn't  throw  my  age  an'"  homeliness  into  my  face, 
Ethan  Ripley.  If  I  hadn't  waited  an'  tended  on  you  so  long,  I'd 
look  a  little  more  's  I  did  when  I  married  yeh." 

Ripley  gave  it  up  in  despair.  He  didn't  realize  fully  enough 
how  the  proposed  trip  had  unsettled  his  wife's  nerves.  She  didn't 
realize  it  herself. 

"As  for  the  hotel  bills,  they  won't  be  none.  I  ain't  agoin'  to 
pay  them  pirates  as  much  for  a  day's  board  as  we'd  charge  for  a 
week's,  and  have  nawthin'  to  eat  but  dishes.  I'm  goin'  to  take  a 
chicken  an'  some  hard-boiled  eggs,  an'  I'm  goin'  right  through 
to  Georgetown." 

"Wai,  all  right,  mother;  but  here's  the  ticket  I  got." 

"I  don't  want  yer  ticket." 

"But  you've  got  to  take  it." 

"Well,  I  hain't." 

"Why,  yes,  ye  have.  It's  bought,  an'  they  won't  take  it  back." 

"Wonst  they?"  She  was  perplexed  again. 

"Not  much  they  won't.  I  ast  'em.  A  ticket  sold  is  sold." 

"Wai,  if  they  won't " 

"You  bet  they  won't." 

"I  s'pose  I'll  haff  to  use  it."  And  that  ended  it. 

They  were  a  familiar  sight  as  they  rode  down  the  road  toward 
town  next  day.  As  usual,  Mrs.  Ripley  sat  up  straight  and  stiff  as 
"a  half-drove  wedge  in  a  white-oak  log."  The  day  was  cold  and 
raw.  There  was  some  snow  on  the  ground,  but  not  enough  to  war- 


180  Main-Travelled  Roads 

rant  the  use  of  sleighs.  It  was  "neither  sleddin'  nor  wheelin'." 
The  old  people  sat  on  a  board  laid  across  the  box,  and  had  an 
old  quilt  or  two  drawn  up  over  their  knees.  Tewksbury  lay  in 
the  back  part  of  the  box  (which  was  filled  with  hay),  where  he 
jounced  up  and  down,  in  company  with  a  queer  old  trunk  and  a 
brand-new  imitation-leather  hand-bag. 

There  is  no  ride  quite  so  desolate  and  uncomfortable  as  a  ride 
in  a  lumber-wagon  on  a  cold  day  in  autumn,  when  the  ground 
is  frozen,  and  the  wind  is  strong  and  raw  with  threatening  snow. 
The  wagon-wheels  grind  along  in  the  snow,  the  cold  gets  in  under 
the  seat  at  the  calves  of  one's  legs,  and  the  ceaseless  bumping  of 
the  bottom  of  the  box  on  the  feet  is  almost  intolerable. 

There  was  not  much  talk  on  the  way  down,  and  what  little 
there  was  related  mainly  to  certain  domestic  regulations,  to  be 
strictly  followed,  regarding  churning,  pickles,  pancakes,  etc.  Mrs. 
Ripley  wore  a  shawl  over  her  head,  and  carried  her  queer  little  black 
bonnet  in  her  hand.  Tewksbury  was  also  wrapped  in  a  shawl.  The 
boy's  teeth  were  pounding  together  like  castanets  by  the  time  they 
reached  Cedarville,  and  every  muscle  ached  with  the  fatigue  of 
shaking. 

After  a  few  purchases  they  drove  down  to  the  station,  a  fright- 
ful little  den  (common  in  the  West),  which  was  always  too  hot 
or  too  cold.  It  happened  to  be  hot  just  now — a  fact  which  rejoiced 
little  Tewksbury. 

"Now  git  my  trunk  stamped,  'r  fixed f  'r  whatever  they  call  it," 
she  said  to  Ripley,  in  a  commanding  tone,  which  gave  great  delight 
to  the  inevitable  crowd  of  loafers  beginning  to  assemble.  "Now 
remember,  Tukey,  have  grandad  kill  that  biggest  turkey  night 
before  Thanksgiving,  an'  then  you  run  right  over  to  Mis'  Doud- 
ney's — she's  got  a  nawful  tongue,  but  she  can  bake  a  turkey  first- 
rate — an'  she'll  fix  up  some  squash-pies  for  yeh.  You  can  warm 
up  one  o'  them  mince-pies.  I  wish  ye  could  be  with  me,  but  ye 
can't ;  so  do  the  best  ye  can." 

Ripley  returning  now,  she  said:  "Wai,  now,  I've  fixed  things 
up  the  best  I  could.  I've  baked  bread  enough  to  last  a  week,  an' 
Mis'  Doudney  has  promised  to  bake  for  yeh " 


Mrs.  Ripley's  Trip  181 

"I  don't  like  her  bakin'." 

"Wai,  you'll  haff  to  stand  it  till  I  get  back,  'n'  you'll  find  a 
jar  o*  sweet  pickles  an'  some  crab-apple  sauce  down  suller,  'n' 
you'd  better  melt  up  brown  sugar  for  'lasses,  'n'  for  goodness' 
sake  don't  eat  all  them  mince-pies  up  the  fust  week,  'n'  see  that 
Tukey  ain't  froze  goin'  to  school.  An'  now  you'd  better  get  out 
for  home.  Good-by!  an'  remember  them  pies." 

As  they  were  riding  home,  Ripley  roused  up  after  a  long  silence. 

"Did  she — a — kiss  you  good-by,  Tukey?" 

"No,  sir,"  piped  Tewksbury. 

"Thunder!  didn't  she?"  After  a  silence:  "She  didn't  me, 
neither.  I  guess  she  kind  a'  sort  a'  forgot  it,  bein'  so  flustered, 
y'  know." 

One  cold,  windy,  intensely  bright  day,  Mrs.  Stacey,  who  lives 
about  two  miles  from  Cedarville,  looking  out  of  the  window,  saw 
a  queer  little  figure  struggling  along  the  road,  which  was  blocked 
here  and  there  with  drifts.  It  was  an  old  woman  laden  with  a 
good  half-dozen  parcels,  which  the  wind  seemed  determined  to 
wrench  from  her. 

She  was  dressed  in  black,  with  a  full  skirt,  and  her  cloak  being 
short,  the  wind  had  excellent  opportunity  to  inflate  her  garments 
and  sail  her  off  occasionally  into  the  deep  snow  outside  the  track, 
but  she  held  out  bravely  till  she  reached  the  gate.  As  she  turned 
in,  Mrs.  Stacey  cried : 

"Why!  it's  Gran'ma  Ripley,  just  getting  back  from  her  trip. 
Why!  how  do  you  do?  Come  in.  Why!  you  must  be  nearly 
frozen.  Let  me  take  off  your  hat  and  veil." 

"No,  thank  ye  kindly,  but  I  can't  stop,"  was  the  given  reply. 
"I  must  be  gittin'  back  to  Ripley.  I  expec'  that  man  has  jest  let 
ev'rything  go  six  ways  f'r  Sunday." 

"Oh,  you  must  sit  down  just  a  minute  and  warm." 

"Wai,  I  will;  but  I've  got  to  git  home  by  sundown  sure.  I 
don't  s'pose  they's  a  thing  in  the  house  to  eat,"  she  said  solemnly. 

"Oh,  dear!  I  wish  Stacey  was  here,  so  he  could  take  you  home. 
An'  the  boys  at  school " 


i8a  Main-Travelled  Roads 

"Don't  need  any  help,  if  't  wa'nt  for  these  bundles  an'  things. 
I  guess  I'll  jest  leave  some  of  'em  here,  an' —  Here!  take  one  of 
these  apples.  I  brought  'em  from  Lizy  Jane's  suller,  back  to  Yaark 
State." 

"Oh,  they're  delicious!  You  must  have  had  a  lovely  time." 

"Pretty  good.  But  I  kep'  thinkin'  of  Ripley  an'  Tukey  all  the 
time.  I  s'pose  they  have  had  a  gay  time  of  it"  (she  meant  the 
opposite  of  gay).  "Wai,  as  I  told  Lizy  Jane,  I've  had  my  spree, 
an'  now  I've  got  to  git  back  to  work.  They  ain't  no  rest  for  such 
as  we  are.  As  I  told  Lizy  Jane,  them  folks  in  the  big  houses 
have  Thanksgivin'  dinners  every  day  of  their  lives,  and  men  an' 
women  in  splendid  clo's  to  wait  on  'em,  so't  Thanksgivin'  don't 
mean  anything  to  'em ;  but  we  poor  critters,  we  make  a  great  to-do 
if  we  have  a  good  dinner  onct  a  year.  I've  saw  a  pile  o'  this 
world,  Mrs.  Stacey — a  pile  of  it !  I  didn't  think  they  was  so  many 
big  houses  in  the  world  as  I  saw  b'tween  here  an'  Chicago.  Wai, 
I  can't  set  here  gabbin'."  She  rose  resolutely.  "I  must  get  home 
to  Ripley.  Jest  kind  o'  stow  them  bags  away.  I'll  take  two  an' 
leave  them  three  others.  Good-by!  I  must  be  gittin'  home  to 
Ripley.  He'll  want  his  supper  on  time." 

And  off  up  the  road  the  indomitable  little  figure  trudged,  head 
held  down  to  the  cutting  blast — little  snow-fly,  a  speck  on  a 
measureless  expanse,  crawling  along  with  painful  breathing,  and 
slipping,  sliding  steps — "Gittin'  home  to  Ripley  an'  the  boy." 

Ripley  was  out  to  the  barn  when  she  entered,  but  Tewskbury 
was  building  a  fire  in  the  old  cook-stove.  He  sprang  up  with  a 
cry  of  joy,  and  ran  to  her.  She  seized  him  and  kissed  him,  and 
it  did  her  so  much  good  she  hugged  him  close,  and  kissed  him 
again  and  again,  crying  hysterically. 

"Oh,  gran'ma,  I'm  so  glad  to  see  you!  We've  had  an  awful 
time  since  you've  been  gone." 

She  released  him,  and  looked  around.  A  lot  of  dirty  dishes 
were  on  the  table,  the  table-cloth  was  a  "sight  to  behold"  (as 
she  afterward  said),  and  so  was  the  stove — kettle-marks  all  over 
the  table-cloth,  splotches  of  pancake  batter  all  over  the  stove. 


Mrs.  Ripley's  Trip  183 

"Wai,  I  sh'd  say  as  much,"  she  dryly  assented,  untying  her 
bonnet-strings. 

When  Ripley  came  in  she  had  her  regimentals  on,  the  stove  was 
brushed,  the  room  swept,  and  she  was  elbow-deep  in  the  dish-pan. 
"Hullo,  mother!  Got  back,  hev  yeh?" 

"I  sh'd  say  it  was  about  time"  she  replied  curtly,  without 
looking  up  or  ceasing  work.  "Has  ol'  'Grumpy'  dried  up  yit?" 
This  was  her  greeting. 

Her  trip  was  a  fact  now ;  no  chance  could  rob  her  of  it.  She  had 
looked  forward  twenty-three  years  toward  it,  and  now  she  could 
look  back  at  it  accomplished.  She  took  up  her  burden  again, 
never  more  thinking  to  lay  it  down. 


UNCLE  ETHAN  RIPLEY 

UNCLE  ETHAN  had  a  theory  that  a  man's  character  could  be 
told  by  the  way  he  sat  in  a  wagon  seat. 

"A  mean  man  sets  right  plumb  in  the  middle  o'  the  seat,  as 
much  as  to  say,  'Walk,  gol  darn  yeh,  who  cares!'  But  a  man  that 
sets  in  the  corner  o'  the  seat,  much  as  to  say,  'Jump  in — cheaper 
t'  ride  'n  to  walk/  you  can  jest  tie  to." 

Uncle  Ripley  was  prejudiced  in  favor  of  the  stranger,  therefore, 
before  he  came  opposite  the  potato  patch,  where  the  old  man  was 
"bugging  his  vines."  The  stranger  drove  a  jaded-looking  pair  of 
calico  ponies,  hitched  to  a  clattering  democrat  wagon,  and  he  sat 
on  the  extreme  end  of  the  seat,  with  the  lines  in  his  right  hand, 
while  his  left  rested  on  his  thigh,  with  his  little  finger  gracefully 
crooked  and  his  elbows  akimbo.  He  wore  a  blue  shirt,  with  gay- 
colored  armlets  just  above  the  elbows,  and  his  vest  hung  unbut- 
toned down  his  lank  ribs.  It  was  plain  he  was  well  pleased  with 
himself. 

As  he  pulled  up  and  threw  one  leg  over  the  end  of  the  seat, 
Uncle  Ethan  observed  that  the  left  spring  was  much  more  worn 
than  the  other,  which  proved  that  it  was  not  accidental,  but  that 
it  was  the  driver's  habit  to  sit  on  that  end  of  the  seat. 

"Good  afternoon,"  said  the  stranger,  pleasantly. 

"Good  afternoon,  sir." 

"Bugs  purty  plenty?" 

"Plenty  enough,  I  gol!  I  don't  see  where  they  all  come  fum." 

"Early  Rose?"  inquired  the  man,  as  if  referring  to  the  bugs. 

"No;  Peachblows  an'  Carter  Reds.  My  Early  Rose  is  over 
near  the  house.  The  old  woman  wants  'em  near.  See  the  darned 
things!"  he  pursued,  rapping  savagely  on  the  edge  of  the  pan  to 
rattle  the  bugs  back. 

"How  do  yeh  kill  'em— scald  'em?" 

184 


Uncle  Ethan   Ripley  185 


"Mostly.  Sometimes  I 


"Good  piece  of  oats,"  yawned  the  stranger,  listlessly. 

"That's  barley." 

"So  'tis.  Didn't  notice." 

Uncle  Ethan  was  wondering  who  the  man  was.  He  had  some 
pots  of  black  paint  in  the  wagon,  and  two  or  three  square  boxes. 

"What  do  yeh  think  o'  Cleveland's  chances  for  a  second  term?" 
continued  the  man,  as  if  they  had  been  talking  politics  all  the 
while. 

Uncle  Ripley  scratched  his  head.  "Waal — I  dunno — bein*  a 
Republican — I  think " 

"That's  so — it's  a  purty  scaly  outlook.  I  don't  believe  in  second 
terms  myself,"  the  man  hastened  to  say. 

"Is  that  your  new  barn  acrosst  there?"  he  asked,  pointing  with 
his  whip. 

"Yes,  sir,  it  is,"  replied  the  old  man,  proudly.  After  years  of 
planning  and  hard  work  he  had  managed  to  erect  a  little  wooden 
barn,  costing  possibly  three  hundred  dollars.  It  was  plain  to  be 
seen  he  took  a  childish  pride  in  the  fact  of  its  newness. 

The  stranger  mused.  "A  lovely  place  for  a  sign,"  he  said,  as 
his  eyes  wandered  across  its  shining  yellow  broadside. 

Uncle  Ethan  stared,  unmindful  of  the  bugs  crawling  over  the 
edge  of  his  pan.  His  interest  in  the  pots  of  paint  deepened. 

"Couldn't  think  o'  lettin'  me  paint  a  sign  on  that  barn?"  the 
stranger  continued,  putting  his  locked  hands  around  one  knee, 
and  gazing  away  across  the  pig-pen  at  the  building. 

"What  kind  of  a  sign?  Gol  darn  your  skins!"  Uncle  Ethan 
pounded  the  pan  with  his  paddle  and  scraped  two  or  three  crawling 
abominations  off  his  leathery  wrist. 

It  was  a  beautiful  day,  and  the  man  in  the  wagon  seemed  un- 
usually loath  to  attend  to  business.  The  tired  ponies  slept  in  the 
shade  of  the  lombardies.  The  plain  was  draped  in  a  warm  mist, 
and  shadowed  by  vast,  vaguely  defined  masses  of  clouds — a  lazy 
June  day. 

"Dodd's  Family  Bitters,"  said  the  man,  waking  out  of  his 
abstraction  with  a  start,  and  resuming  his  working  manner.  "The 


1 86  Main-Travelled  Roads 

best  bitter  in  the  market."  He  alluded  to  it  in  the  singular.  "Like 
to  look  at  it?  No  trouble  to  show  goods,  as  the  fellah  says,"  he 
went  on  hastily,  seeing  Uncle  Ethan's  hesitation. 

He  produced  a  large  bottle  of  triangular  shape,  like  a  bottle 
for  pickled  onions.  It  had  a  red  seal  on  top,  and  a  strenuous  cau- 
tion in  red  letters  on  the  neck,  "None  genuine  unless  'Dodd's 
Family  Bitters'  is  blown  in  the  bottom." 

"Here's  what  it  cures,"  pursued  the  agent,  pointing  at  the  side, 
where,  in  an  inverted  pyramid,  the  names  of  several  hundred 
diseases  were  arranged,  running  from  "gout"  to  "pulmonary  com- 
plaints," etc. 

"I  gol!  she  cuts  a  wide  swath,  don't  she?"  exclaimed  Uncle 
Ethan,  profoundly  impressed  with  the  list. 

"They  ain't  no  better  bitter  in  the  world,"  said  the  agent,  with 
a  conclusive  inflection. 

"What's  its  speshy-fl/ity  ?  Most  of  'em  have  some  speshy-<z/ity." 

"Well — summer  complaints — an' — an' — spring  an'  fall  troubles 
— tones  ye  up,  sort  of." 

Uncle  Ethan's  forgotten  pan  was  empty  of  his  gathered  bugs. 
He  was  deeply  interested  in  this  man.  There  was  something  he 
liked  about  him. 

"What  does  it  sell  fur?"  he  asked,  after  a  pause. 

"Same  price  as  them  cheap  medicines — dollar  a  bottle — big 
bottles,  too.  Want  one?" 

"Wai,  mother  ain't  to  home,  an'  I  don't  know  as  she'd  like 
this  kind.  We  ain't  been  sick  f'r  years.  Still,  they's  no  tellin'," 
he  added,  seeing  the  answer  to  his  objection  in  the  agent's  eyes. 
"Times  is  purty  close  to,  with  us,  y'  see;  we've  jest  built  that 
stable " 

"Say  I'll  tell  yeh  what  I'll  do,"  said  the  stranger,  waking  up 
and  speaking  in  a  warmly  generous  tone.  "I'll  give  you  ten 
bottles  of  the  bitter  if  you'll  let  me  paint  a  sign  on  that  barn. 
It  won't  hurt  the  barn  a  bit,  and  if  you  want  'o  you  can  paint 
it  out  a  year  from  date.  Come,  what  d'ye  say?" 

"I  guess  I  hadn't  better." 


Uncle  Ethan   Ripley  187 

The  agent  thought  that  Uncle  Ethan  was  after  more  pay,  but 
in  reality  he  was  thinking  of  what  his  little  old  wife  would  say. 

"It  simply  puts  a  family  bitter  in  your  home  that  may  save 
you  fifty  dollars  this  comin'  fall.  You  can't  tell." 

Just  what  the  man  said  after  that  Uncle  Ethan  didn't  follow. 
His  voice  had  a  confidential  purring  sound  as  he  stretched  across 
the  wagon-seat  and  talked  on,  eyes  half  shut.  He  straightened  up 
at  last,  and  concluded  in  the  tone  of  one  who  has  carried  his 
point : 

"So!  If  you  didn't  want  to  use  the  whole  twenty-five  bottles 
y'rself ,  why !  sell  it  to  your  neighbors.  You  can  get  twenty  dollars 
out  of  it  easy,  and  still  have  five  bottles  of  the  best  family  bitter 
that  ever  went  into  a  bottle." 

It  was  the  thought  of  this  opportunity  to  get  a  buffalo-skin  coat 
that  consoled  Uncle  Ethan  as  he  saw  the  hideous  black  letters 
appearing  under  the  agent's  lazy  brush. 

It  was  the  hot  side  of  the  barn,  and  painting  was  no  light  work. 
The  agent  was  forced  to  mop  his  forehead  with  his  sleeve. 

"Say,  hain't  got  a  cooky  or  anything,  and  a  cup  o'  milk,  handy?" 
he  said  at  the  end  of  the  first  enormous  word,  which  ran  the 
whole  length  of  the  barn. 

Uncle  Ethan  got  him  the  milk  and  cooky,  which  he  ate  with 
an  exaggeratedly  dainty  action  of  his  fingers,  seated  meanwhile 
on  the  staging  which  Uncle  Ripley  had  helped  him  to  build. 
This  lunch  infused  new  energy  into  him,  and  in  a  short  time 
"DODD'S  FAMILY  BITTERS,  Best  in  the  Market,"  disfigured  the 
sweet-smelling  pine  boards. 

Ethan  was  eating  his  self-obtained  supper  of  bread  and  milk 
when  his  wife  came  home. 

"Who's  been  a-paintin'  on  that  barn?"  she  demanded,  her 
bead-like  eyes  flashing,  her  withered  little  face  set  in  an  ominous 
frown.  "Ethan  Ripley,  what  you  been  doin'?" 

"Nawthin',"  he  replied   feebly. 

"Who  painted  that  sign  on  there?" 

"A  man  come  along  an'  he  wanted  to  paint  that  on  there,  and 


1 88  Main-Travelled  Roads 

I  let  'im;  and  it's  my  barn  anyway.  I  guess  I  can  do  what  I'm 
a  min'  to  with  it,"  he  ended,  defiantly ;  but  his  eyes  wavered. 

Mrs.  Ripley  ignored  the  defiance.  "What  under  the  sun  p'sessed 
you  to  do  such  a  thing  as  that,  Ethan  Ripley?  I  declare  I  don't 
see !  You  git  fooler  an'  fooler  ev'ry  day  you  live,  I  do  believe." 

Uncle  Ethan  attempted  a  defence. 

"Wai,  he  paid  me  twenty-five  dollars  f'r  it,  anyway." 

"Did  'e?"  She  was  visibly  affected  by  this  news. 

"Wall,  anyhow,  it  amounts  to  that;  he  give  me  twenty-five 
bottles " 

Mrs.  Ripley  sank  back  in  her  chair.  "Wai,  I  swan  to  Bungay! 
Ethan  Ripley — wal,  you  beat  all  I  ever  see !"  she  added,  in  despair 
of  expression.  "I  thought  you  had  some  sense  left;  but  you  hain't, 
not  one  blessed  scimpton.  Where  is  the  stuff?" 

"Down  cellar,  an'  you  needn't  take  on  no  airs,  ol'  woman. 
I've  known  you  to  buy  things  you  didn't  need  time  an'  time  an' 
agin — tins  an'  things,  an'  I  guess  you  wish  you  had  back  that  ten 
dollars  you  paid  for  that  illustrated  Bible." 

"Go  'long  an'  bring  that  stuff  up  here.  I  never  see  such  a  man 
in  my  life.  It's  a  wonder  he  didn't  do  it  f'r  two  bottles.  She 
glared  out  at  the  sign,  which  faced  directly  upon  the  kitchen 
window. 

Uncle  Ethan  tugged  the  two  cases  up  and  set  them  down  on  the 
floor  of  the  kitchen.  Mrs.  Ripley  opened  a  bottle  and  smelled  of  it 
like  a  cautious  cat. 

"Ugh!  Merciful  sakes,  what  stuff!  It  ain't  fit  f'r  a  hog  to  take. 
What'd  you  think  you  was  goin'  to  do  with  it?"  she  asked  in 
poignant  disgust. 

"I  expected  to  take  it — if  I  was  sick.  Whaddy  ye  s'pose?"  He 
defiantly  stood  his  ground,  towering  above  her  like  a  leaning  tower. 

"The  hull  cartload  of  it?" 

"No.  I'm  goin'  to  sell  part  of  it  an*  git  me  an  overcoat " 

"Sell  it!"  she  shouted.  "Nobuddy'll  buy  that  sick'nin'  stuff  but 
an  old  numskull  like  you.  Take  that  slop  out  o*  the  house  this 
minute!  Take  it  right  down  to  the  sink-hole  an'  smash  every 
bottle  on  the  stones." 


Uncle  Ethan   Ripley  189 

Uncle  Ethan  and  the  cases  of  medicine  disappeared,  and  the 
old  woman  addressed  her  concluding  remarks  to  little  Tewks- 
bury,  her  grandson,  who  stood  timidly  on  one  leg  in  the  door- 
way, like  an  intruding  pullet. 

"Everything  around  this  place  'ud  go  to  rack  an*  ruin  if  I 
didn't  keep  a  watch  on  that  soft-pated  old  dummy.  I  thought 
that  lightnin'-rod  man  had  give  him  a  lesson  he'd  remember;  but 
no,  he  must  go  an'  make  a  reg'lar " 

She  subsided  in  a  tumult  of  banging  pans,  which  helped  her  out 
in  the  matter  of  expression  and  reduced  her  to  a  grim  sort  of 
quiet.  Uncle  Ethan  went  about  the  house  like  a  convict  on  ship- 
board. Once  she  caught  him  looking  out  of  the  window. 

"I  should  think  you'd  feel  proud  o'  that." 

Uncle  Ethan  had  never  been  sick  a  day  in  his  life.  He  was  bent 
and  bruised  with  never-ending  toil,  but  he  had  nothing  especial 
the  matter  with  him. 

He  did  not  smash  the  medicine,  as  Mrs.  Ripley  commanded, 
because  he  had  determined  to  sell  it.  The  next  Sunday  morning, 
after  his  chores  were  done,  he  put  on  his  best  coat  of  faded 
diagonal,  and  was  brushing  his  hair  into  a  ridge  across  the  centre 
of  his  high,  narrow  head,  when  Mrs.  Ripley  came  in  from  feeding 
the  calves. 

"Where  you  goin'  now?" 

"None  o'  your  business,"  he  replied.  "It's  darn  funny  if  I  can't 
stir  without  you  wantin'  to  know  all  about  it.  Where's  Tukey?" 

"Feedin'  the  chickens.  You  ain't  goin'  to  take  him  off  this 
mornin'  now!  I  don't  care  where  you  go." 

"Who's  a-goin'  to  take  him  off.  I  ain't  said  nothin'  about 
takin'  him  off." 

"Wai,  take  y'rself  off,  an'  if  y*  ain't  here  f'r  dinner,  I  ain't 
goin'  to  get  no  supper." 

Ripley  took  a  water-pail  and  put  four  bottles  of  "the  bitter" 
into  it,  and  trudged  away  up  the  road  with  it  in  a  pleasant  glow 
of  hope.  All  nature  seemed  to  declare  the  day  a  time  of  rest, 
and  invited  men  to  disassociate  ideas  of  toil  from  the  rustling 
green  wheat,  shining  grass,  and  tossing  blooms.  Something  of  the 


190  Main-Travelled  Roads 

sweetness  and  buoyancy  of  all  nature  permeated  the  old  man's 
work-calloused  body,  and  he  whistled  little  snatches  of  the  dance 
tunes  he  played  on  his  fiddle. 

But  he  found  neighbor  Johnson  to  be  supplied  with  another 
variety  of  bitter,  which  was  all  he  needed  for  the  present.  He 
qualified  his  refusal  to  buy  with  a  cordial  invitation  to  go  out 
and  see  his  shoats,  in  which  he  took  infinite  pride.  But  Uncle 
Ripley  said:  "I  guess  I'll  haf  t'  be  goin';  I  want  'o  git  up  to 
Jennings'  before  dinner." 

He  couldn't  help  feeling  a  little  depressed  when  he  found 
Jennings  away.  The  next  house  along  the  pleasant  lane  was  in- 
habited by  a  "newcomer."  He  was  sitting  on  the  horse-trough, 
holding  a  horse's  halter,  while  his  hired  man  dashed  cold  water 
upon  the  galled  spot  on  the  animal's  shoulder. 

After  some  preliminary  talk  Ripley  presented  his  medicine. 

"Hell,  no!  What  do  I  want  of  such  stuff?  When  they's  any- 
thing the  matter  with  me,  I  take  a  lunkin'  ol'  swig  of  popple- 
bark  and  bourbon!  That  fixes  me." 

Uncle  Ethan  moved  off  up  the  lane.  He  hardly  felt  like 
whistling  now.  At  the  next  house  he  set  his  pail  down  in  the 
weeds  beside  the  fence,  and  went  in  without  it.  Doudney  came  to 
the  door  in  his  bare  feet,  buttoning  his  suspenders  over  a  clean 
boiled  shirt.  He  was  dressing  to  go  out. 

"Hello,  Ripley.  I  was  just  goin'  down  your  way.  Jest  wait  a 
minute,  an'  I'll  be  out." 

When  he  came  out,  fully  dressed,  Uncle  Ethan  grappled  him. 

"Say,  what  d'  you  think  o'  paytent  med " 

"Some  of  'em  are  boss.  But  y'  want  'o  know  what  y're  gittin'." 

"What  d'  ye  think  o'  Dodd's " 

"Best  in  the  market." 

Uncle  Ethan  straightened  up  and  his  face  lighted.  Doudney 
went  on: 

"Yes,  sir;  best  bitter  that  ever  went  into  a  bottle.  I  know, 
I've  tried  it.  I  don't  go  much  on  patent  medicines,  but  when  I 
get  a  good " 

"Don't  want  'o  buy  a  bottle?" 


Uncle  Ethan   Ripley  191 

Doudney  turned  and  faced  him. 

"Buy!  No.  I've  got  nineteen  bottles  I  want  o  sell"  Ripley 
glanced  up  at  Doudney's  new  granary  and  there  read  "Dodd's 
Family  Bitters."  He  was  stricken  dumb.  Doudney  saw  it  all,  and 
roared. 

"Wai,  that's  a  good  one!  We  two  tryin'  to  sell  each  other  bit- 
ters. Ho — ho — ho — har,  whoop!  wal,  this  is  rich!  How  many 
bottles  did  you  git?" 

"None  o'  your  business,"  said  Uncle  Ethan,  as  he  turned  and 
made  off,  while  Doudney  screamed  with  merriment. 

On  his  way  home  Uncle  Ethan  grew  ashamed  of  his  burden. 
Doudney  had  canvassed  the  whole  neighborhood,  and  he  prac- 
tically gave  up  the  struggle.  Everybody  he  met  seemed  deter- 
mined to  find  out  what  he  had  been  doing,  and  at  last  he  began 
lying  about  it. 

"Hello,  Uncle  Ripley,  what  y'  got  there  in  that  pail?" 

"Goose  eggs  f'r  settin'." 

He  disposed  of  one  bottle  to  old  Gus  Peterson.  Gus  never  paid 
his  debts,  and  he  would  only  promise  fifty  cents  "on  tick"  for 
the  bottle,  and  yet  so  desperate  was  Ripley  that  this  questionable 
sale  cheered  him  up  not  a  little. 

As  he  came  down  the  road,  tired,  dusty,  and  hungry,  he  climbed 
over  the  fence  in  order  to  avoid  seeing  that  sign  on  the  barn, 
and  slunk  into  the  house  without  looking  back, 

He  couldn't  have  felt  meaner  about  it  if  he  had  allowed  a 
Democratic  poster  to  be  pasted  there. 

The  evening  passed  in  grim  silence,  and  in  sleep  he  saw  that 
sign  wriggling  across  the  side  of  the  barn  like  boa-constrictors 
hung  on  rails.  He  tried  to  paint  them  out,  but  every  time  he  tried 
it  the  man  seemed  to  come  back  with  a  sheriff,  and  savagely 
warned  him  to  let  it  stay  till  the  year  was  up.  In  some  mysterious 
way  the  agent  seemed  to  know  every  time  he  brought  out  the 
paint-pot,  and  he  was  no  longer  the  pleasant-voiced  individual 
who  drove  the  calico  ponies. 

As  he  stepped  out  into  the  yard  next  morning  that  abominable, 


192  Main-Travelled  Roads 

sickening,  scrawling  advertisement  was  the  first  thing  that  claimed 
his  glance — it  blotted  out  the  beauty  of  the  morning. 

Mrs.  Ripley  came  to  the  window,  buttoning  her  dress  at  the 
throat,  a  wisp  of  her  hair  sticking  assertively  from  the  little  knob 
at  the  back  of  her  head. 

"Lovely,  ain't  it!  An'  /'ve  got  to  see  it  all  day  long.  I  can't 
look  out  the  winder  but  that  thing's  right  in  my  face."  It  seemed 
to  make  her  savage.  She  hadn't  been  in  such  a  temper  since  her 
visit  to  New  York.  "I  hope  you  feel  satisfied  with  it." 

Ripley  walked  off  to  the  barn.  His  pride  in  its  clean  sweet  new- 
ness was  gone.  He  slyly  tried  the  paint  to  see  if  it  couldn't  be 
scraped  off,  but  it  was  dried  in  thoroughly.  Whereas  before  he 
had  taken  delight  in  having  his  neighbors  turn  and  look  at  the 
building,  now  he  kept  out  of  sight  whenever  he  saw  a  team  com- 
ing. He  hoed  corn  away  in  the  back  of  the  field,  when  he  should 
have  been  bugging  potatoes  by  the  roadside. 

Mrs.  Ripley  was  in  a  frightful  mood  about  it,  but  she  held  her- 
self in  check  for  several  days.  At  last  she  burst  forth: 

"Ethan  Ripley,  I  can't  stand  that  thing  any  longer,  and  I  ain't 
goin'  to,  that's  all!  You've  got  to  go  and  paint  that  thing  out,  or 
I  will.  I'm  just  about  crazy  with  it." 

"But,  mother,  I  promised " 

"I  don't  care  what  you  promised,  it's  got  to  be  painted  out. 
I've  got  the  nightmare  now,  seein'  it.  I'm  goin'  to  send  f'r  a  pail 
o'  red  paint,  and  I'm  goin'  to  paint  that  out  if  it  takes  the  last 
breath  I've  got  to  do  it." 

"I'll  tend  to  it,  mother,  if  you  won't  hurry  me " 

"I  can't  stand  it  another  day.  It  makes  me  boil  every  time  I 
look  out  the  winder." 

Uncle  Ethan  hitched  up  his  team  and  drove  gloomily  off  to 
town,  where  he  tried  to  find  the  agent.  He  lived  in  some  other 
part  of  the  county,  however,  and  so  the  old  man  gave  up  and 
bought  a  pot  of  red  paint,  not  daring  to  go  back  to  his  desperate 
wife  without  it. 

"Goin'  to  paint  y'r  new  barn?"  inquired  the  merchant,  with 
friendly  interest. 


Uncle  Ethan   Ripley  193 

Uncle  Ethan  turned  with  guilty  sharpness;  but  the  merchant's 
face  was  grave  and  kindly. 

"Yes,  I  thought  I'd  tech  it  up  a  little — don't  cost  much." 

"It  pays — always/'  the  merchant  said  emphatically. 

"Will  it — stick  jest  as  well  put  on  evenings?"  inquired  Uncle 
Ethan,  hesitatingly. 

"Yes — won't  make  any  difference.  Why?  Ain't  goin'  to 
have " 

"Wai, — I  kind  o'  thought  I'd  do  it  odd  times  night  an' 
mornin' — kind  o'  odd  times " 

He  seemed  oddly  confused  about  it,  and  the  merchant  looked 
after  him  anxiously  as  he  drove  away. 

After  supper  that  night  he  went  out  to  the  barn,  and  Mrs. 
Ripley  heard  him  sawing  and  hammering.  Then  the  noise  ceased, 
and  he  came  in  and  sat  down  in  his  usual  place. 

"What  y'  ben  makin'?"  she  inquired.  Tewksbury  had  gone  to 
bed.  She  sat  darning  a  stocking. 

"I  jest  thought  I'd  git  the  stagin'  ready  f'r  paintin',"  he  said, 
evasively. 

"Wai!  I'll  be  glad  when  it's  covered  up."  When  she  got  ready 
for  bed,  he  was  still  seated  in  his  chair,  and  after  she  had  dozed 
off  two  or  three  times  she  began  to  wonder  why  he  didn't  come. 
When  the  clock  struck  ten,  and  she  realized  that  he  had  not 
stirred,  she  began  to  get  impatient.  "Come,  are  y'  goin'  to  sit 
there  all  night?"  There  was  no  reply.  She  rose  up  in  bed  and 
looked  about  the  room.  The  broad  moon  flooded  it  with  light, 
so  that  she  could  see  he  was  not  asleep  in  his  chair,  as  she  had  sup- 
posed. There  was  something  ominous  in  his  disappearance. 

"Ethan!  Ethan  Ripley,  where  are  yeh!"  There  was  no  reply 
to  her  sharp  call.  She  rose  and  distractedly  looked  about  among 
the  furniture,  as  if  he  might  somehow  be  a  cat  and  be  hiding  in 
a  corner  somewhere.  Then  she  went  upstairs  where  the  boy  slept, 
her  hard  little  heels  making  a  curious  tunking  noise  on  the  bare 
boards.  The  moon  fell  across  the  sleeping  boy  like  a  robe  of 
silver.  He  was  alone. 

She  began  to  be  alarmed.  Her  eyes  widened  in  fear.  All  sorts 


194  Main-Travelled  Roads 

of  vague  horrors  sprang  unbidden  into  her  brain.  She  still  had 
the  mist  of  sleep  in  her  brain. 

She  hurried  down  the  stairs  and  out  into  the  fragrant  night. 
The  katydids  were  singing  in  infinite  peace  under  the  solemn 
splendor  of  the  moon.  The  cattle  sniffed  and  sighed,  jangling 
their  bells  now  and  then,  and  the  chickens  in  the  coop  stirred  un- 
easily as  if  overheated.  The  old  woman  stood  there  in  her  bare 
feet  and  long  nightgown,  horror-stricken.  The  ghastly  story  of 
a  man  who  had  hung  himself  in  his  barn  because  his  wife  deserted 
him  came  into  her  mind,  and  stayed  there  with  frightful  per- 
sistency. Her  throat  filled  chokingly. 

She  felt  a  wild  rush  of  loneliness.  She  had  a  sudden  realiza- 
tion of  how  dear  that  gaunt  old  figure  was,  with  its  grizzled  face 
and  ready  smile.  Her  breath  came  quick  and  quicker,  and  she  was 
at  the  point  of  bursting  into  a  wild  cry  to  Tewksbury,  when  she 
heard  a  strange  noise.  It  came  from  the  barn,  a  creaking  noise. 
She  looked  that  way,  and  saw  in  the  shadowed  side  a  deeper 
shadow  moving  to  and  fro.  A  revulsion  to  astonishment  and  anger 
took  place  in  her. 

"Land  o'  Bungay!  If  he  ain't  paintin'  that  barn,  like  a  perfect 
old  idiot,  in  the  night." 

Uncle  Ethan,  working  desperately,  did  not  hear  her  feet  pat- 
tering down  the  path,  and  was  startled  by  her  shrill  voice. 

"Well,  Ethan  Ripley,  whaddy  y'  think  you're  doin'  now?" 

He  made  two  or  three  slapping  passes  with  the  brush,  and  then 
snapped  out,  "I'm  a-paintin'  this  barn — whaddy  ye  s'pose?  If  ye 
had  eyes  y'  wouldn't  ask." 

"Well,  you  come  right  straight  to  bed.  What  d'you  mean  by 
actin'  so?" 

"You  go  back  into  the  house  an'  let  me  be.  I  know  what  I'm 
a-doin'.  You've  pestered  me  about  this  sign  jest  about  enough." 
He  dabbed  his  brush  to  and  fro  as  he  spoke.  His  gaunt  figure 
towered  above  her  in  shadow.  His  slapping  brush  had  a  vicious 
sound. 

Neither  spoke  for  some  time.  At  length  she  said  more  gently< 
"Ain't  you  comin'  in?" 


Uncle   Ethan   Ripley  195 

"No — not  till  I  get  a-ready.  You  go  'long  an'  tend  to  y'r  own 
business.  Don't  stan'  there  an'  ketch  cold." 

She  moved  off  slowly  toward  the  house.  His  shout  subdued  her. 
Working  alone  out  there  had  rendered  him  savage;  he  was  not 
to  be  pushed  any  further.  She  knew  by  the  tone  of  his  voice  that 
he  must  now  be  respected.  She  slipped  on  her  shoes  and  a  shawl, 
and  came  back  where  he  was  working,  and  took  a  seat  on  a  saw- 
horse. 

"I'm  goin'  to  set  right  here  till  you  come  in,  Ethan  Ripley," 
she  said,  in  a  firm  voice,  but  gentler  than  usual. 

"Wai,  you'll  set  a  good  while,"  was  his  ungracious  reply,  but 
each  felt  a  furtive  tenderness  for  the  other.  He  worked  on  in 
silence.  The  boards  creaked  heavily  as  he  walked  to  and  fro, 
and  the  slapping  sound  of  the  paint-brush  sounded  loud  in  the 
sweet  harmony  of  the  night.  The  majestic  moon  swung  slowly 
round  the  corner  of  the  barn,  and  fell  upon  the  old  man's  grizzled 
head  and  bent  shoulders.  The  horses  inside  could  be  heard  stamp- 
ing the  mosquitoes  away,  and  chewing  their  hay  in  pleasant  chorus. 

The  little  figure  seated  on  the  saw-horse  drew  the  shawl  closer 
about  her  thin  shoulders.  Her  eyes  were  in  shadow,  and  her 
hands  were  wrapped  in  her  shawl.  At  last  she  spoke  in  a  curious 
tone. 

"Wai,  I  don't  know  as  you  was  so  very  much  to  blame.  I 
didn't  want  that  Bible  myself — I  held  out  I  did,  but  I  didn't." 

Eth^n  worked  on  until  the  full  meaning  of  this  unprecedented 
surrender  penetrated  his  head,  and  then  he  threw  down  his  brush. 

"Wai,  I  guess  I'll  let  'er  go  at  that.  I've  covered  up  the  most 
of  it,  anyhow.  Guess  we  better  go  in." 


GOD'S  RAVENS 
I 

CHICAGO  has  three  winds  that  blow  upon  it.  One  comes  from 
the  east,  and  the  mind  goes  out  to  the  cold  gray-blue  lake.  One 
from  the  north,  and  men  think  of  illimitable  spaces  of  pine-lands 
and  maple-clad  ridges  which  lead  to  the  unknown  deeps  of  the 
arctic  woods. 

But  the  third  is  the  west  or  southwest  wind,  dry,  magnetic, 
full  of  smell  of  unmeasured  miles  of  growing  grain  in  summer, 
or  ripening  corn  and  wheat  in  autumn.  When  it  comes  in  winter 
the  air  glitters  with  incredible  brilliancy.  The  snow  of  the  country 
dazzles  and  flames  in  the  eyes;  deep-blue  shadows  everywhere 
stream  like  stains  of  ink.  Sleigh-bells  wrangle  from  early  morning 
till  late  at  night,  and  every  step  is  quick  and  alert.  In  the  city, 
smoke  dims  its  clarity,  but  it  is  welcome. 

But  its  greatest  moment  of  domination  is  spring.  The  bitter  gray 
wind  of  the  east  has  held  unchecked  rule  for  days,  giving  place  to 
its  brother  the  north  wind  only  at  intervals,  till  some  day  in 
March  the  wind  of  the  southwest  begins  to  blow.  Then  the  eaves 
begin  to  drip.  Here  and  there  a  fowl  (in  a  house  that  is  really  a 
prison)  begins  to  sing  the  song  it  sang  on  the  farm,  and  toward 
noon  its  song  becomes  a  chant  of  articulate  joy. 

Then  the  poor  crawl  out  of  their  reeking  hovels  on  the  south 
and  west  sides  to  stand  in  the  sun — the  blessed  sun — and  felicitate 
themselves  on  being  alive.  Windows  of  sick-rooms  are  opened, 
the  merry  small  boy  goes  to  school  without  his  tippet,  and  men 
lay  off  their  long  ulsters  for  their  beaver  coats.  Caps  give  place 
to  hats,  and  men  and  women  pause  to  chat  when  they  meet  each 
other  on  the  street.  The  open  door  is  the  sign  of  the  great  change 
of  wind. 

196 


God's  Ravens  197 

There  are  imaginative  souls  who  are  stirred  yet  deeper  by  this 
wind — men  like  Robert  Bloom,  to  whom  come  vague  and  very 
sweet  reminiscences  of  farm  life  when  the  snow  is  melting  and 
the  dry  ground  begins  to  appear.  To  these  people  the  wind  comes 
from  the  wide  unending  spaces  of  the  prairie  west.  They  can  smell 
the  strange  thrilling  odor  of  newly  uncovered  sod  and  moist  brown 
ploughed  lands.  To  them  it  is  like  the  opening  door  of  a  prison. 

Robert  had  crawled  down-town  and  up  to  his  office  high  in  the 
Star  block  after  a  month's  sickness.  He  had  resolutely  pulled  a 
pad  of  paper  under  his  hand  to  write,  but  the  window  was  open 
and  that  wind  coming  in,  and  he  could  not  write — he  could  only 
dream. 

His  brown  hair  fell  over  the  thin  white  hand  which  propped 
his  head.  His  face  was  like  ivory  with  dull  yellowish  stains  in  it. 
His  eyes  did  not  see  the  mountainous  roofs  humped  and  piled  into 
vast  masses  of  brick  and  stone,  crossed  and  riven  by  streets,  and 
swept  by  masses  of  gray-white  vapor;  they  saw  a  little  valley 
circled  by  low-wooded  bluffs — his  native  town  in  Wisconsin. 

As  his  weakness  grew  his  ambition  fell  away,  and  his  heart 
turned  back  to  nature  and  to  the  things  he  had  known  in  his 
youth,  to  the  kindly  people  of  the  olden  time.  It  did  not  occur 
to  him  that  the  spirit  of  the  country  might  have  changed. 

Sitting  thus,  he  had  a  mighty  longing  come  upon  him  to  give 
up  the  struggle,  to  go  back  to  the  simplest  life  with  his  wife  and 
two  boys.  Why  should  he  tread  in  the  mill,  when  every  day 
was  taking  the  life-blood  out  of  his  heart? 

Slowly  his  longing  took  resolution.  At  last  he  drew  his  desk 
down,  and  as  the  lock  clicked  it  seemed  like  the  shutting  of  a 
prison  gate  behind  him. 

At  the  elevator  door  he  met  a  fellow-editor.  "Hello,  Bloom! 
Didn't  know  you  were  down  to-day." 

"I'm  only  trying  it.  I'm  going  to  take  a  vacation  for  a  while." 

"That's  right,  man.  You  look  like  a  ghost." 

He  hadn't  the  courage  to  tell  him  he  never  expected  to  work 
there  again.  His  step  on  the  way  home  was  firmer  than  it  had 
been  for  weeks.  In  his  white  face  his  wife  saw  some  subtle  change. 


198  Main-Travelled  Roads 

"What  is  it,  Robert?" 

"Mate,  let's  give  it  up." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"The  struggle  is  too  hard.  I  can't  stand  it.  I'm  hungry  for  the 
country  again.  Let's  get  out  of  this." 

"Where'll  we  go?" 

"Back  to  my  native  town — up  among  the  Wisconsin  hills  and 
coulies.  Go  anywhere,  so  that  we  escape  this  pressure — it's  killing 
me.  Let's  go  to  Bluff  Siding  for  a  year.  It  will  do  me  good — may 
bring  me  back  to  life.  I  can  do  enough  special  work  to  pay  our 
grocery  bill;  and  the  Merrill  place — so  Jack  tells  me — is  empty. 
We  can  get  it  for  seventy-five  dollars  for  a  year.  We  can  pull 
through  some  way." 

"Very  well,  Robert." 

"I  must  have  rest.  All  the  bounce  has  gone  out  of  me,  Mate," 
he  said,  with  sad  lines  in  his  face.  "Any  extra  work  here  is  out 
of  the  question.  I  can  only  shamble  around — an  excuse  for  a 
man." 

The  wife  had  ceased  to  smile.  Her  strenuous  cheerfulness  could 
not  hold  before  his  tragically  drawn  and  bloodless  face. 

"I'll  go  wherever  you  think  best,  Robert.  It  will  be  just  as 
well  for  the  boys.  I  suppose  there  is  a  school  there?" 

"Oh  yes.  At  any  rate,  they  can  get  a  year's  schooling  in  nature." 

"Well — no  matter,  Robert;  you  are  the  one  to  be  considered." 
She  had  the  self-sacrificing  devotion  of  the  average  woman.  She 
fancied  herself  hopelessly  his  inferior. 

They  had  dwelt  so  long  on  the  crumbling  edge  of  poverty  that 
they  were  hardened  to  its  threat,  and  yet  the  failure  of  Robert's 
health  had  been  of  the  sort  which  terrifies.  It  was  a  slow  but 
steady  sinking  of  vital  force.  It  had  its  ups  and  downs,  but  it 
was  a  downward  trail,  always  downward.  The  time  for  self- 
deception  had  passed. 

His  paper  paid  him  a  meagre  salary,  for  his  work  was  prized 
only  by  the  more  thoughtful  readers  of  the  Star.  In  addition  to 
his  regular  work  he  occasionally  hazarded  a  story  for  the  juvenile 


God's  Ravens  199 

magazines  of  the  East.  In  this  way  he  turned  the  antics  of  his 
growing  boys  to  account,  as  he  often  said  to  his  wife. 

He  had  also  passed  the  preliminary  stages  of  literary  success 
by  getting  a  couple  of  stories  accepted  by  an  Eastern  magazine, 
and  he  still  confidently  looked  forward  to  seeing  them  printed. 

His  wife,  a  sturdy,  practical  little  body,  did  her  part  in  the 
bitter  struggle  by  keeping  their  little  home  one  of  the  most  at- 
tractive on  the  West  Side,  the  North  Side  being  altogether  too 
high  for  them. 

In  addition,  her  sorely  pressed  brain  sought  out  other  ways  of 
helping.  She  wrote  out  all  her  husband's  stories  on  the  typewriter, 
and  secretly  she  had  tried  composing  others  herself.  The  results 
being  queer  dry  little  chronicles  of  the  doings  of  men  and  women, 
strung  together  without  a  touch  of  literary  grace. 

She  proposed  taking  a  large  house  and  re-renting  rooms,  but 
Robert  would  not  hear  to  it.  "As  long  as  I  can  crawl  about  we'll 
leave  that  to  others." 

In  the  month  of  preparation  which  followed  he  talked  a  great 
deal  about  their  venture. 

"I  want  to  get  there,"  he  said,  "just  when  the  leaves  are  coming 
out  on  the  trees.  I  want  to  see  the  cherry-trees  blossom  on  the 
hillsides.  The  popple-trees  always  get  green  first." 

At  other  times  he  talked  about  the  people.  "It  will  be  a  rest 
just  to  get  back  among  people  who  aren't  ready  to  tread  on  your 
head  in  order  to  lift  themselves  up.  I  believe  a  year  among  those 
kind,  unhurried  people  will  give  me  all  the  material  I'll  need 
for  years.  I'll  write  a  series  of  studies  somewhat  like  Jeffries' — 
or  Barrie's — only,  of  course,  I'll  be  original.  I'll  just  take  his  plan 
of  telling  about  the  people  I  meet  and  their  queer  ways,  so  quaint 
and  good." 

"I'm  tired  of  the  scramble,"  he  kept  breaking  out  of  silence  to 
say.  "I  don't  blame  the  boys,  but  it's  plain  to  me  they  see  that  my 
going  will  let  them  move  up  one.  Mason  cynically  voiced  the 
whole  thing  today:  'I  can  say,  "sorry  to  see  you  go,  Bloom,"  because 
your  going  doesn't  concern  me.  I'm  not  in  line  of  succession,  but 
some  of  the  other  boys  don't  feel  so.  There's  no  divinity  doth 


200  Main-Travelled  Roads 

hedge  an  editor;  nothing  but  law  prevents  the  murder  of  those 
above  by  those  below.'  " 

"I  don't  like  Mr.  Mason  when  he  talks  like  that,"  said  the 
wife. 

"Well— I  don't."  He  didn't  tell  her  what  Mason  said  when 
Robert  talked  about  the  good  simple  life  of  the  people  in  Bluff 
Siding: 

"Oh,  bosh,  Bloom!  You'll  find  the  struggle  of  the  outside  world 
reflected  in  your  little  town.  You'll  find  men  and  women  just  as 
hard  and  selfish  in  their  small  way.  It'll  be  harder  to  bear,  be- 
cause it  will  all  be  so  petty  and  pusillanimous." 

It  was  a  lovely  day  in  late  April  when  they  took  the  train  out 
of  the  great  grimy  terrible  city.  It  was  eight  o'clock,  but  the 
streets  were  muddy  and  wet,  a  cold  east  wind  blowing  off  the 
lake. 

With  clanging  bell  the  train  moved  away  piercing  the  ragged 
gray  formless  mob  of  houses  and  streets  (through  which  railways 
always  run  in  a  city).  Men  were  hurrying  to  work,  and  Robert 
pitied  them,  poor  fellows,  condemned  to  do  that  thing  forever. 

In  an  hour  they  reached  the  prairies,  already  clothed  upon 
faintly  with  green  grass  and  tender  springing  wheat.  The  purple- 
brown  squares  reserved  for  the  corn  looked  deliciously  soft  and 
warm  to  the  sick  man,  and  he  longed  to  set  his  bare  feet  into  it. 

His  boys  were  wild  with  delight.  They  had  the  natural  love 
of  the  earth  still  in  them,  and  correspondingly  cared  little  for  the 
city.  They  raced  through  the  cars  like  colts.  They  saw  everything. 
Every  blossoming  plant,  every  budding  tree,  was  precious  to  them 
all. 

All  day  they  rode.  Toward  noon  they  left  the  sunny  prairie- 
land  of  northern  Illinois  and  southern  Wisconsin,  and  entered 
upon  the  hill-land  of  Madison  and  beyond.  As  they  went  north, 
the  season  was  less  advanced,  but  spring  was  in  the  fresh  wind 
and  the  warm  sunshine. 

As  evening  drew  on,  the  hylas  began  to  peep  from  the  pools, 
and  their  chorus  deepened  as  they  came  on  toward  Bluff  Siding, 


God's  Ravens  201 

which  seemed  very  small,  very  squalid,  and  uninteresting,  but 
Robert  pointed  at  the  circling  wine-colored  wall  of  hills  and  the 
warm  sunset  sky. 

"We're  in  luck  to  find  a  hotel,"  said  Robert.  "They  burn  down 
every  three  months." 

They  were  met  by  a  middle-aged  man,  and  conducted  across 
the  road  to  a  hotel,  which  had  been  a  roller-skating  rink  in  other 
days,  and  was  not  prepossessing.  However,  they  were  ushered  into 
the  parlor,  which  resembled  the  sitting-room  of  a  rather  ambi- 
tious village  home,  and  there  they  took  seats,  while  the  landlord 
consulted  about  rooms. 

The  wife's  heart  sank.  From  the  window  she  could  see  sev- 
eral of  the  low  houses,  and  far  off  just  the  hills  which  seemed 
to  make  the  town  so  very  small,  very  lonely.  She  was  not  given 
time  to  shed  tears.  The  children  clamored  for  food,  tired  and 
cross. 

Robert  went  out  into  the  office,  where  he  signed  his  name 
under  the  close  and  silent  scrutiny  of  a  half-dozen  roughly  clad 
men,  who  sat  leaning  against  the  wall.  They  were  merely 
working-men  to  him,  but  in  Mrs.  Bloom's  eyes  they  were 
dangerous  people. 

The  landlord  looked  at  the  name  as  Robert  wrote.  "Your 
boxes  are  all  here,"  he  said. 

Robert   looked   up   at  him  in  surprise.   "What  boxes?" 

"Your  household  goods.  They  came  in  on  No.  9." 

Robert  recovered  himself.  He  remembered  this  was  a  village 
where  everything  that  goes  on — everything — is  known. 

The  stairway  rose  picturesquely  out  of  the  office  to  the  low 
second  story,  and  up  these  stairs  they  tramped  to  their  tiny 
rooms  which  were  like  cells. 

"Oh,  mamma,  ain't  it  queer?"  cried  the  boys. 

"Supper  is  all  ready,"  the  landlord's  soft,  deep  voice  an- 
nounced a  few  moments  later,  and  the  boys  responded  with 
whoops  of  hunger. 

They  were   met   by   the   close   scrutiny  of   every  boarder   as 


202  Main-Travelled  Roads 

they  entered,  and  they  heard  also  the  muttered  comments  and 
explanations. 

"Family  to  take  the  Merrill  house." 

"He  looks  purty  well  flaxed  out,  don't  he?" 

They  were  agreeably  surprised  to  find  everything  neat  and 
clean  and  wholesome.  The  bread  was  good  and  the  butter 
delicious.  Their  spirits  revived. 

"That  butter  tastes  like  old  times,"  said  Robert.  "It's  fresh. 
It's  really  butter." 

They  made  a  hearty  meal,  and  the  boys,  being  filled  up,  grew 
sleepy.  After  they  were  put  to  bed  Robert  said,  "Now,  Mate, 
let's  go  see  the  house." 

They  walked  out  arm  in  arm  like  lovers.  Her  sturdy  form 
steadied  him,  though  he  would  not  have  acknowledged  it.  The 
red  flush  was  not  yet  gone  from  the  west,  and  the  hills  still 
kept  a  splendid  tone  of  purple-black.  It  was  very  clear,  the 
stars  were  out,  the  wind  deliciously  soft.  "Isn't  it  still?"  Robert 
almost  whispered. 

They  walked  on  under  the  budding  trees  up  the  hill,  till 
they  came  at  last  to  the  small  frame  house  set  under  tall  maples 
and  locust-trees,  just  showing  a  feathery  fringe  of  foliage. 

"This  is  our  home,"  said  Robert. 

Mate  leaned  on  the  gate  in  silence.  Frogs  were  peeping.  The 
smell  of  spring  was  in  the  air.  There  was  a  magnificent  repose 
in  the  hour,  restful,  recreating,  impressive. 

"Oh,  it's  beautiful,  Robert!  I  know  we  shall  like  it." 

"We  must  like  it,"  he  said. 

II 

First  contact  with  the  people  disappointed  Robert.  In  the 
work  of  moving  in  he  had  to  do  with  people  who  work  at  day's 
work,  and  the  fault  was  his  more  than  theirs.  He  forgot  that 
they  did  not  consider  their  work  degrading.  They  resented  his 
bossing.  The  drayman  grew  rebellious. 

"Look  a-here,  my  Christian  friend,  if  you'll  go  'long  in  the 


God's  Ravens  203 

house  and  let  us  alone  it'll  be  a  good  job.  We  know  what 
we're  about." 

This  was  not  pleasant,  and  he  did  not  perceive  the  trouble. 
In  the  same  way  he  got  foul  of  the  carpenter  and  the  man  who 
ploughed  his  garden.  Some  way  his  tone  was  not  right.  His 
voice  was  cold  and  distant.  He  generally  found  that  the  men 
knew  better  than  he  what  was  to  be  done  and  how  to  do  it; 
and  sometimes  he  felt  like  apologizing,  but  their  attitude  had 
changed  till  apology  was  impossible. 

He  had  repelled  their  friendly  advances  because  he  consid- 
ered them  (without  meaning  to  do  so)  as  workmen,  and  not 
as  neighbors.  They  reported,  therefore,  that  he  was  cranky  and 
rode  a  high  horse. 

"He  thinks  he's  a  little  tin  god  on  wheels,"  the  drayman  said. 

"Oh,  he'll  get  over  that,"  said  McLane.  "I  knew  the  boy's 
folks  years  ago — tiptop  folks,  too.  He  ain't  well,  and  that 
makes  him  a  little  crusty." 

"That's  the  trouble — he  thinks  he's  an  upper  crust,"  said 
Jim  Cullen,  the  drayman. 

At  the  end  of  ten  days  they  were  settled,  and  nothing  re- 
mained to  do  but  plan  a  little  garden  and — get  well.  The  boys, 
with  their  unspoiled  natures,  were  able  to  melt  into  the  ranks 
of  the  village-boy  life  at  once,  with  no  more  friction  than  was 
indicated  by  a  couple  of  rough-and-tumble  fights.  They  were 
sturdy  fellows,  like  their  mother,  and  these  fights  gave  them 
high  rank. 

Robert  got  along  in  a  dull,  smooth  way  with  his  neighbors. 
He  was  too  formal  with  them.  He  met  them  only  at  the  meat- 
shop  and  the  post-office.  They  nodded  genially,  and  said,  "Got 
settled  yet?"  And  he  replied,  "Quite  comfortable,  thank  you." 
They  felt  his  coldness.  Conversation  halted  when  he  came  near, 
and  made  him  feel  that  he  was  the  subject  of  their  talk.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  he  generally  was.  He  was  a  source  of  great 
speculation  with  them.  Some  of  them  had  gone  so  far  as  to  bet 
he  wouldn't  live  a  year.  They  all  seemed  grotesque  to  him,  so 
work-scarred  and  bent  and  hairy.  Even  the  men  whose  names 


204  Main-Travelled  Roads 

he  had  known  from  childhood  were  queer  to  him.  They  seemed 
shy  and  distant,  too,  not  like  his  ideas  of  them. 

To  Mate  they  were  almost  caricatures.  "What  makes  them 
look  so — so  'way  behind  the  times,  Robert?" 

"Well,  I  suppose  they  are,"  said  Robert.  "Life  in  these 
coulies  goes  on  rather  slower  than  in  Chicago.  Then  there  are 
a  great  many  Welsh  and  Germans  and  Norwegians,  living 
'way  up  the  coulies,  and  they're  the  ones  you  notice.  They're 
not  all  so."  He  could  be  generous  toward  them  in  general;  it 
was  in  special  cases  where  he  failed  to  know  them. 

They  had  been  there  nearly  two  weeks  without  meeting  any 
of  them  socially,  and  Robert  was  beginning  to  change  his 
opinion  about  them.  "They  let  us  severely  alone,"  he  was  say- 
ing one  night  to  his  wife. 

"It's  very  odd.  I  wonder  what  I'd  better  do,  Robert?  I  don't 
know  the  etiquette  of  these  small  towns.  I  never  lived  in  one 
before,  you  know.  Whether  I  ought  to  call  first — and,  good 
gracious,  who'll  I  call  on?  I'm  in  the  dark." 

"So  am  I,  to  tell  the  truth.  I  haven't  lived  in  one  of  these 
small  towns  since  I  was  a  lad.  I  have  a  faint  recollection  that 
introductions  were  absolutely  necessary.  They  have  an  etiquette 
which  is  as  binding  as  that  of  McAllister's  Four  Hundred,  but 
what  it  is  I  don't  know." 

"Well,  we'll  wait." 

"The  boys  are  perfectly  at  home,"  said  Robert,  with  a  little 
emphasis  on  boys,  which  was  the  first  indication  of  his  dis- 
appointment. The  people  he  had  failed  to  reach. 

There  came  a  knock  on  the  door  that  startled  them  both. 
"Come  in,"  said  Robert,  in  a  nervous  shout. 

"Land  sakes!  did  I  scare  ye?  Seem  so,  way  ye  yelled,"  said 
a  high-keyed  nasal  voice,  and  a  tall  woman  came  in,  followed  by 
an  equally  stalwart  man. 

"How  d'e  do,  Mrs.  Folsom?  My  wife,  Mr.  Folsom." 

Folsom's  voice  was  lost  in  the  bustle  of  getting  settled,  but 
Mrs.  Folsom's  voice  rose  above  the  clamor.  "I  was  tellin'  him 
it  was  about  time  we  got  neighborly.  I  never  let  anybody  come 


God's  Ravens  205 

to  town  a  week  without  callin'  on  'em.  It  does  a  body  a  heap  o'  good 
to  see  a  face  outside  the  family  once  in  a  while,  specially  in  a 
new  place.  How  do  you  like  up  here  on  the  hill?" 

"Very  much.  The  view  is  so  fine." 

"Yes,  I  s'pose  it  is.  Still,  it  ain't  my  notion.  I  don't  like  to 
climb  hills  well  enough.  Still,  I've  heard  of  people  buildin' 
just  for  the  view.  It's  all  in  taste,  as  the  old  woman  said  that 
kissed  the  cow." 

There  was  an  element  of  shrewdness  and  self-analysis  in 
Mrs.  Folsom  which  saved  her  from  being  grotesque.  She  knew 
she  was  queer  to  Mrs.  Bloom,  but  she  did  not  resent  it.  She 
was  still  young  in  form  and  face,  but  her  teeth  were  gone, 
and,  like  so  many  of  her  neighbors,  she  was  too  poor  to  replace 
them  from  the  dentist's.  She  wore  a  decent  calico  dress  and  a 
shawl  and  hat. 

As  she  talked  her  eyes  took  in  every  article  of  furniture  in 
the  room,  and  every  little  piece  of  fancy-work  and  bric-a-brac. 
In  fact,  she  reproduced  the  pattern  of  one  of  the  tidies  within 
two  days. 

Folsom  sat  dumbly  in  his  chair.  Robert,  who  met  him  now 
as  a  neighbor  for  the  first  time,  tried  to  talk  with  him,  but 
failed,  and  turned  himself  gladly  to  Mrs.  Folsom,  who  de- 
lighted him  with  her  vigorous  phrases. 

"Oh,  we're  a-movin',  though  you  wouldn't  think  it.  This 
town  is  filled  with  a  lot  of  old  skinflints.  Close  ain't  no  name  for 
'em.  Jest  ask  Folsom  thar  about  'em.  He's  been  buildin'  their 
houses  for  'em.  Still,  I  suppose  they  say  the  same  thing  o'  me," 
she  added,  with  a  touch  of  humor  which  always  saved  her.  She 
used  a  man's  phrases.  "We're  always  ready  to  tax  some  other 
feller,  but  we  kick  like  mules  when  the  tax  falls  on  us,"  she 
went  on.  "My  land!  the  fight  we've  had  to  git  sidewalks  in  this 
town !" 

"You  should  be  mayor." 

"That's  what  I  tell  Folsom.  Takes  a  woman  to  clean  things 
up.  Well,  I  must  run  along.  Thought  I'd  jest  call  in  and  see 
how  you  all  was.  Come  down  when  ye  kin," 


206  Main-Travelled  Roads 

"Thank  you,  I  will." 

After  they  had  gone  Robert  turned  with  a  smile:  "Our  first 
formal  call." 

"Oh,  dear,  Robert,  what  can  I  do  with  such  people?" 

"Go  see  'em.  I  like  her.  She's  shrewd.  You'll  like  her,  too." 

"But  what  can  I  say  to  such  people?  Did  you  hear  her  say 
'we  fellers'  to  me?" 

Robert  laughed.  "That's  nothing.  She  feels  as  much  of  a  man, 
or  'feller,'  as  any  one.  Why  shouldn't  she?" 

"But  she's  so  vulgar." 

"I  admit  she  isn't  elegant,  but  I  think  she's  a  good  wife  and 
mother." 

"I  wonder  if  they're  all  like  that?" 

"Now,  Mate,  we  must  try  not  to  offend  them.  We  must  try 
to  be  one  of  them." 

But  this  was  easier  said  than  done.  As  he  went  down  to  the 
post-office  and  stood  waiting  for  his  mail  like  the  rest  he  tried 
to  enter  into  conversation  with  them,  but  mainly  they  moved 
away  from  him.  William  McTurg  nodded  at  him  and  said, 
"How  de  do?"  and  McLane  asked  how  he  liked  his  new  place, 
and  that  was  about  all. 

He  couldn't  reach  them.  They  suspected  him.  They  had  only 
the  estimate  of  the  men  who  had  worked  for  him;  and,  while 
they  were  civil,  they  plainly  didn't  need  him  in  the  slightest 
degree,  except  as  a  topic  of  conversation. 

He  did  not  improve  as  he  had  hoped  to  do.  The  spring  was 
wet  and  cold,  the  most  rainy  and  depressing  the  valley  had  seen 
in  many  years.  Day  after  day  the  rain-clouds  sailed  in  over  the 
northern  hills  and  deluged  the  flat  little  town  with  water,  till 
the  frogs  sang  in  every  street,  till  the  main  street  mired  down 
every  team  that  drove  into  it. 

The  corn  rotted  in  the  earth,  but  the  grass  grew  tall  and 
yellow-green,  the  trees  glistened  through  the  gray  air,  and  the 
hills  were  like  green  jewels  of  incalculable  worth,  when  the 
sun  shone,  at  sweet  infrequent  intervals. 

The  cold  and  damp  struck  through  into  the  alien's  heart.  It 


God's  Ravens  207 

seemed  to  prophesy  his  dark  future.  He  sat  at  his  desk  and 
looked  out  into  the  gray  rain  with  gloomy  eyes — a  prisoner  when 
he  had  expected  to  be  free. 

He  had  failed  in  his  last  venture.  He  had  not  gained  any 
power — he  was  really  weaker  than  ever.  The  rain  had  kept  him 
confined  to  the  house.  The  joy  he  had  anticipated  of  tracing 
out  all  his  boyish  pleasure  haunts  was  cut  off.  He  had  relied, 
too,  upon  that  as  a  source  of  literary  power. 

He  could  not  do  much  more  than  walk  down  to  the  post- 
office  and  back  on  the  pleasantest  days.  A  few  people  called,  but 
he  could  not  talk  to  them,  and  they  did  not  call  again. 

In  the  mean  while  his  little  bank-account  was  vanishing.  The 
boys  were  strong  and  happy;  that  was  his  only  comfort.  And  his 
wife  seemed  strong,  too.  She  had  little  time  to  get  lonesome. 

He  grew  morbid.  His  weakness  and  insecurity  made  him 
jealous  of  the  security  and  health  of  others. 

He  grew  almost  to  hate  the  people  as  he  saw  them  coming 
and  going  in  the  mud,  or  heard  their  loud  hearty  voices  sound^ 
ing  from  the  street.  He  hated  their  gossip,  their  dull  jokes.  The 
flat  little  town  grew  vulgar  and  low  and  desolate  to  him. 

Every  little  thing  which  had  amused  him  now  annoyed  him. 
The  cut  of  their  beards  worried  him.  Their  voices  jarred  upon 
him.  Every  day  or  two  he  broke  forth  to  his  wife  in  long  tirades 
of  abuse. 

"Oh,  I  can't  stand  these  people!  They  don't  know  anything. 
They  talk  every  rag  of  gossip  into  shreds.  'Taters,  fish,  hops; 
hops,  fish,  and  'taters.  They've  saved  and  pinched  and  toiled 
till  their  souls  are  pinched  and  ground  away.  You're  right. 
They  are  caricatures.  They  don't  read  or  think  about  anything 
in  which  I'm  interested.  This  life  is  nerve-destroying.  Talk 
about  the  health  of  the  village  life!  It  destroys  body  and  soul. 
It  debilitates  me.  It  will  warp  us  both  down  to  the  level  of 
these  people." 

She  tried  to  stop  him,  but  he  went  on,  a  flush  of  fever  on  his 
cheek : 

"They   degrade   the   nature   they   have   touched.   Their   squat 


208  Main-Travelled  Roads 

little  town  is  a  caricature  like  themselves.  Everything  they 
touch  they  belittle.  Here  they  sit  while  sidewalks  rot  and  teams 
mire  in  the  streets." 

He  raged  on  like  one  demented — bitter,  accusing,  rebellious. 
In  such  a  mood  he  could  not  write.  In  place  of  inspiring  him,  the 
little  town  and  its  people  seemed  to  undermine  his  power  and  turn 
his  sweetness  of  spirit  into  gall  and  acid.  He  only  bowed  to  them 
now  as  he  walked  feebly  among  them,  and  they  excused  it  by  re- 
ferring to  his  sickness.  They  eyed  him  each  time  with  pitying  eyes. 
"He's  failin'  fast,"  they  said  among  themselves. 

One  day,  as  he  was  returning  from  the  post-office,  he  felt  blind 
for  a  moment  and  put  his  hand  to  his  head.  The  world  of  vivid 
green  grew  gray,  and  life  receded  from  him  into  illimitable  dis- 
tance. He  had  one  dim  fading  glimpse  of  a  shaggy-bearded  face 
looking  down  at  him,  and  felt  the  clutch  of  an  iron-hard  strong 
arm  under  him,  and  then  he  lost  hold  even  on  so  much  conscious- 
ness. 

He  came  back  slowly,  rising  out  of  immeasurable  deeps  toward 
a  distant  light  which  was  like  the  mouth  of  a  well  filled  with 
clouds  of  misty  vapor.  Occasionally  he  saw  a  brown  big  hairy 
face  floating  in  over  this  lighted  horizon,  to  smile  kindly  and  go 
away  again.  Others  came  with  shaggy  beards.  He  heard  a  cheery 
tenor  voice  which  he  recognized,  and  then  another  face,  a  big 
brown  smiling  face;  very  lovely  it  looked  now  to  him — almost 
as  lovely  as  his  wife's,  which  floated  in  from  the  other  side. 

"He's  all  right  now,"  said  the  cheery  tenor  voice  from  the 
big  bearded  face. 

"Oh,  Mr.  McTurg,  do  you  think  so?" 

"Ye-e-s,  sir.  He's  all  right.  The  fever's  left  him.  Brace  up,  old 
man.  We  need  ye  yit  awhile."  Then  all  was  silent  again. 

The  well-mouth  cleared  away  its  mist  again,  and  he  saw  more 
clearly.  Part  of  the  time  he  knew  he  was  in  bed  staring  at  the 
ceiling.  Part  of  the  time  the  well-mouth  remained  closed  in  with 
clouds. 

Gaunt  old  women  put  spoons  of  delicious  broth  to  his  lips,  and 


God's  Ravens  209 

their  toothless  mouths  had  kindly  lines  about  them.  He  heard 
their  high  voices  sounding  faintly. 

"Now,  Mis'  Bloom,  jest  let  Mis'  Folsom  an*  me  attend  to 
things  out  here.  We'll  get  supper  for  the  boys,  an'  you  jest  go  an' 
lay  down.  We'll  take  care  of  him.  Don't  worry.  Bell's  a  good 
hand  with  sick." 

Then  the  light  came  again,  and  he  heard  a  robin  singing,  and  a 
cat-bird  squalled  softly,  pitifully.  He  could  see  the  ceiling  again. 
He  lay  on  his  back,  with  his  hands  on  his  breast.  He  felt  as  if  he 
had  been  dead.  He  seemed  to  feel  his  body  as  if  it  were  an  alien 
thing. 

"How  are  you,  sir?"  called  the  laughing,  thrillingly  hearty  voice 
of  William  McTurg. 

He  tried  to  turn  his  head,  but  it  wouldn't  move.  He  tried  to 
speak,  but  his  dry  throat  made  no  noise. 

The  big  man  bent  over  him.  "Want  'o  change  place  a  little?" 

He  closed  his  eyes  in  answer. 

A  giant  arm  ran  deftly  under  his  shoulders  and  turned  him  as 
if  he  were  an  infant,  and  a  new  part  of  the  good  old  world  burst 
on  his  sight.  The  sunshine  streamed  in  the  windows  through  a 
waving  screen  of  lilac  leaves  and  fell  upon  the  carpet  in  a  price- 
less flood  of  radiance. 

There  sat  William  McTurg  smiling  at  him.  He  had  no  coat 
on  and  no  hat,  and  his  bushy  thick  hair  rose  up  from  his  fore- 
head like  thick  marsh-grass.  He  looked  to  be  the  embodiment  of 
sunshine  and  health.  Sun  and  air  were  in  his  brown  face,  and 
the  perfect  health  of  a  fine  animal  was  in  his  huge  limbs.  He  looked 
at  Robert  with  a  smile  that  brought  a  strange  feeling  into  his 
throat.  It  made  him  try  to  speak;  at  last  he  whispered. 

The  great  figure  bent  closer :  "What  is  it  ?" 

"Thank— you." 

William  laughed  a  low  chuckle.  "Don't  bother  about  thanks,. 
Would  you  like  some  water?" 

A  tall  figure  joined  William,  awkwardly. 

"Hello,  Evan!" 

"How  is  he,  Bill?" 


2io  Main-Travelled  Roads 

"He's  awake  to-day." 

"That's  good.  Anything  I  can  do?" 

"No,  I  guess  not.  All  he  needs  is  somethin'  to  eat." 

"I  jest  brought  a  chicken  up,  an'  some  jell  an'  things  the  women 
sent.  I'll  stay  with  him  till  twelve,  then  Folsom  will  come  in." 

Thereafter  he  lay  hearing  the  robins  laugh  and  the  orioles 
whistle,  and  then  the  frogs  and  katydids  at  night.  These  men  with 
greasy  vests  and  unkempt  beards  came  in  every  day.  They  bathed 
him,  and  helped  him  to  and  from  the  bed.  They  helped  to  dress 
him  and  move  him  to  the  window,  where  he  could  look  out  on 
the  blessed  green  of  the  grass. 

O  God,  it  was  so  beautiful!  It  was  a  lover's  joy  only  to  live, 
to  look  into  these  radiant  vistas  again.  A  catbird  was  singing  in 
the  currant-hedge.  A  robin  was  hopping  across  the  lawn.  The 
voices  of  the  children  sounded  soft  and  jocund  across  the  road. 
And  the  sunshine — "Beloved  Christ,  Thy  sunshine  falling  upon 
my  feet!"  His  soul  ached  with  the  joy  of  it,  and  when  his  wife 
came  in  she  found  him  sobbing  like  a  child. 

They  seemed  never  to  weary  in  his  service.  They  lifted  him 
about,  and  talked  to  him  in  loud  and  hearty  voices  which  roused 
him  like  fresh  winds  from  free  spaces. 

He  heard  the  women  busy  with  things  in  the  kitchen.  He  often 
saw  them  loaded  with  things  to  eat  passing  his  window,  and 
often  his  wife  came  in  and  knelt  down  at  his  bed. 

"Oh,  Robert,  they're  so  good!  They  feed  us  like  God's  ravens." 

One  day,  as  he  sat  at  the  window  fully  dressed  for  the  fourth 
or  fifth  time,  William  McTurg  came  up  the  walk. 

"Well,  Robert,  how  are  ye  to-day?" 

"First  rate,  William,"  he  smiled.  "I  believe  I  can  walk  out  a 
little  if  you'll  help  me." 

"All  right,  sir." 

And  he  went  forth  leaning  on  William's  arm,  a  piteous  wraith 
of  a  man. 

On  every  side  the  golden  June  sunshine  fell,  filling  the  valley 
from  purple  brim  to  purple  brim.  Down  over  the  hill  to  the  west 
the  light  poured,  tangled  and  glowing  in  the  plum  and  cherry 


God's  Ravens  211 

trees,  leaving  this  glistening  grass  spraying  through  the  elms, 
and  flinging  streamers  of  pink  across  the  shaven  green  slopes  where 
the  cattle  fed. 

On  every  side  he  saw  kindly  faces  and  heard  hearty  voices: 
"Good  day,  Robert.  Glad  to  see  you  out  again."  It  thrilled  him 
to  hear  them  call  him  by  his  first  name. 

His  heart  swelled  till  he  could  hardly  breathe.  The  passion  of 
living  came  back  upon  him,  shaking,  uplifting  him.  His  pallid 
lips  moved.  His  face  was  turned  to  the  sky. 

"O  God,  let  me  live ;  It  is  so  beautiful !  O  God,  give  me  strength 
again !  Keep  me  in  the  light  of  the  sun !  Let  me  see  the  green  grass 
come  and  go!" 

He  turned  to  William  with  trembling  lips,  trying  to  speak: 

"Oh,  I  understand  you  now.  I  know  you  all  now." 

But  William  did  not  understand  him. 

"There!  there!"  he  said,  soothingly.  "I  guess  you're  gettin' 
tired."  He  led  Robert  back  and  put  him  to  bed. 

"I'd  know  but  we  was  a  little  brash  about  goin'  out,"  William 
said  to  him,  as  Robert  lay  there  smiling  up  at  him. 

"Oh,  I'm  all  right  now,"  the  sick  man  said. 

"Matie,"  the  alien  cried,  when  William  had  gone,  "we  know 
our  neighbors  now,  don't  we  ?  We  never  can  hate  or  ridicule  them 
again." 

"Yes,  Robert.  They  never  will  be  caricatures  again — to  me." 


A  "GOOD  FELLOW'S"  WIFE 
I 

LIFE  in  the  small  towns  of  the  older  West  moves  slowly — 
almost  as  slowly  as  in  the  seaport  villages  or  little  towns  of  the 
East.  Towns  like  Tyre  and  Bluff  Siding  have  grown  during  the 
last  twenty  years,  but  very  slowly,  by  almost  imperceptible  de- 
grees. Lying  too  far  away  from  the  Mississippi  to  be  affected  by 
the  lumber  interest,  they  are  merely  trading-points  for  the  farmers, 
with  no  perceivable  germs  of  boom  in  their  quiet  life. 

A  stranger  coming  into  Belfast,  Minnesota,  excites  much  the 
same  languid  but  persistent  inquiry  as  in  Belfast,  New  Hampshire. 
Juries  of  men,  seated  on  salt-barrels  and  nail-kegs,  discuss  the 
stranger's  appearance  and  his  probable  action,  just  as  in  Kittery, 
Maine,  but  with  a  lazier  speech- tune,  and  with  a  shade  less  of 
apparent  interest. 

On  such  a  rainy  day  as  comes  in  May  after  the  corn  is  planted 
— a  cold,  wet  rainy  day — the  usual  crowd  was  gathered  in  Wil- 
son's grocery-store  at  Bluff  Siding,  a  small  town  in  "The  Coally 
Country."  They  were  farmers,  for  the  most  part,  retired  from 
active  service.  Their  coats  were  of  cheap  diagonal  or  cassimere, 
much  faded  and  burned  by  the  sun;  their  hats,  flapped  about  by 
winds  and  soaked  with  countless  rains,  were  also  of  the  same  yel- 
low-brown tints.  One  or  two  wore  paper  collars  on  their  hickory 
shirts. 

Mcllvaine,  farmer  and  wheat-buyer,  wore  a  paper  collar  and 
a  butterfly  necktie,  as  befitted  a  man  of  his  station  in  life.  He  was 
a  short,  squarely  made  Scotchman,  with  sandy  whiskers  much 
grayed,  and  with  a  keen,  intensely  blue  eye. 

"Say,"  called  McPhail,  ex-sheriff  of  the  county,  in  the  silence 

212 


A  "Good  Fellow's"  Wife  213 

that  followed  some  remark  about  the  rain,  "any  o'  you  feller? 
had  any  talk  with  this  feller  Sanford  ?" 

"I  hain't,"  said  Vance.  "You,  Bill?" 

"No;  but  somebody  was  sayin'  he  thought  o'  startin'  in  trade 
here." 

"Don't  Sam  know?  He  generally  knows  what's  goin'  on." 

"Knows  he  registered  from  Pittsfield,  Mass.,  an'  that's  all. 
Say,  that's  a  mighty  smart-lookin'  woman  o'  his." 

"Vance  always  sees  how  the  women  look.  Where'd  you  see  A*r?" 

"Came  in  here  the  other  day  to  look  up  prices." 

"Wha'd  she  say  'bout  settlin'?" 

"Hadn't  decided  yet." 

"He's  too  slick  to  have  much  business  in  him.  That  waxed 
mustache  gives  'im  away." 

The  discussion  having  reached  that  point  where  his  word  would 
have  most  effect,  Steve  Gilbert  said,  while  opening  the  hearth  to 
rap  out  the  ashes  of  his  pipe,  "Sam's  wife  heerd  that  he  was  kind 
o'  thinkin'  some  of  goin'  into  business  here,  if  things  suited  'im 
first-rate." 

They  all  knew  the  old  man  was  aching  to  tell  something,  but 
they  didn't  purpose  to  gratify  him  by  any  questions.  The  rain 
dripped  from  the  awning  in  front,  and  fell  upon  the  roof  of  the 
storeroom  at  the  back  with  a  soft  and  steady  roar. 

"Good  f'r  the  corn,"  McPhail  said,  after  a  long  pause. 

"Purty  cold,  though." 

Gilbert  was  tranquil — he  had  a  shot  in  reserve. 

"Sam's  wife  said  his  wife  said  he  was  thinkin'  some  of  goin' 
into  a  bank  here " 

"A  bank!" 

"What  in  thunder " 

Vance  turned,  with  a  comical  look  on  his  long,  placid  face, 
one  hand  stroking  his  beard. 

"Well,  now,  gents,  I'll  tell  you  what's  the  matter  with  this 
town.  It  needs  a  bank.  Yes,  sir !  /  need  a  bank." 

"You?" 


214  Main-Travelled  Roads 

"Yes,  me.  I  didn't  know  just  what  did  ail  me,  but  I  do  now. 
It's  the  need  of  a  bank  that  keeps  me  down." 

"Well,  you  fellers  can  talk  an'  laugh,  but  I  tell  yeh  they's  a 
boom  goin'  to  strike  this  town.  It's  got  to  come.  W'y,  just  look 
at  Lumberville !" 

"Their  boom  is  our  bust"  was  McPhail's  comment. 

"I  don't  think  so,"  said  Sanford,  who  had  entered  in  time  to 
hear  these  last  two  speeches.  They  all  looked  at  him  with  deep 
interest.  He  was  a  smallish  man.  He  wore  a  derby  hat  and  a  neat 
suit.  "I've  looked  things  over  pretty  close — a  man  don't  like  to 
invest  his  capital"  (here  the  rest  looked  at  one  another)  "till  he 
does ;  and  I  believe  there's  an  opening  for  a  bank." 

As  he  dwelt  upon  the  scheme  from  day  to  day,  the  citizens 
warmed  to  him,  and  he  became  "Jim"  Sanford.  He  hired  a  little 
cottage,  and  went  to  housekeeping  at  once ;  but  the  entire  summer 
went  by  before  he  made  his  decision  to  settle.  In  fact,  it  was  in 
the  last  week  of  August  that  the  little  paper  announced  it  in  the 
usual  style : 

Mr.  James  G.  Sanford,  popularly  known  as  "Jim,"  has  decided  to 
open  an  exchange  bank  for  the  convenience  of  our  citizens,  who  have 
hitherto  been  forced  to  transact  business  in  Lumberville.  The  thanks  of 
the  town  are  due  Mr.  Sanford,  who  comes  well  recommended  from 
Massachusetts  and  from  Milwaukee,  and,  better  still,  with  a  bag  of 
ducats.  Mr.  S.  will  be  well  patronized.  Success,  Jim! 

The  bank  was  open  by  the  time  the  corn-crop  and  the  hogs 
were  being  marketed,  and  money  was  received  on  deposit  while 
the  carpenters  were  still  at  work  on  the  building.  Everybody  knew 
now  that  he  was  as  solid  as  oak. 

He  had  taken  into  the  bank,  as  bookkeeper,  Lincoln  Bingham, 
one  of  McPhail's  multitudinous  nephews;  and  this  was  a  capital 
move.  Everybody  knew  Link,  and  knew  he  was  a  McPhail,  which 
meant  that  he  "could  be  tied  to  in  all  kinds  o'  weather."  Of 
course  the  McPhails,  Mcllvaines,  and  the  rest  of  the  Scotch  con- 
tingency "banked  on  Link."  As  old  Andrew  McPhail  put  it: 

"Link's  there,  an'  he  knows  the  bank  an'  books,  an'  just  how 
things  stand" ;  and  so  when  he  sold  his  hogs  he  put  the  whole  sum 


A  "Good  Fellow's"  Wife  215 

— over  fifteen  hundred  dollars — into  the  bank.  The  Mcllvaines 
and  the  Binghams  did  the  same,  and  the  bank  was  at  once  firmly 
established  among  the  farmers. 

Only  two  people  held  out  against  Sanford,  old  Freeme  Cole 
and  Mrs.  Bingham,  Lincoln's  mother;  but  they  didn't  count,  for 
Freeme  hadn't  a  cent,  and  Mrs.  Bingham  was  too  unreasoning 
in  her  opposition.  She  could  only  say:  "I  don't  like  him,  that's 
all.  I  knowed  a  man  back  in  New  York  that  curled  his  m at- 
taches just  that  way,  an'  he  wa'nt  no  earthly  good." 

It  might  have  been  said  by  a  cynic  that  Banker  Sanford  had  all 
the  virtues  of  a  defaulting  bank  cashier.  He  had  no  bad  habits 
beyond  smoking.  He  was  genial,  companionable,  and  especially 
ready  to  help  when  sickness  came.  When  old  Freeme  Cole  got 
down  with  delirium  tremens  that  winter,  Sanford  was  one  of  the 
most  heroic  of  nurses,  and  the  service  was  so  clearly  disinterested 
and  magnanimous  that  every  one  spoke  of  it. 

His  wife  and  he  were  included  in  every  dance  or  picnic;  for 
Mrs.  Sanford  was  as  great  a  favorite  as  the  banker  himself,  she 
was  so  sincere,  and  her  gray  eyes  were  so  charmingly  frank,  and 
then  she  said  "such  funny  things." 

"I  wish  I  had  something  to  do  besides  housework.  It's  a  kind  of 
a  putterin'  job,  best  ye  can  do,"  she'd  say,  merrily,  just  to  see 
the  others  stare.  "There's  too  much  moppin'  an'  dustin'.  Seems 
's  if  a  woman  used  up  half  her  life  on  things  that  don't  amount 
to  anything,  don't  it?" 

"I  tell  yeh  that  feller's  a  scallywag.  I  know  it  buh  the  way  'e 
walks  'long  the  sidewalk,"  Mrs.  Bingham  insisted  to  her  son,  who 
wished  her  to  put  her  savings  into  the  bank. 

The  youngest  of  a  large  family,  Link  had  been  accustomed  all 
his  life  to  Mrs.  Bingham's  many  whimsicalities. 

"I  s'pose  you  can  smell  he's  a  thief,  just  as  you  can  tell  when 
it's  goin'  to  rain,  or  the  butter's  comin',  by  the  smell." 

"Well,  you  needn't  laugh,  Lincoln.  I  can,"  maintained  the  old 
lady,  stoutly.  "An'  I  ain't  goin'  to  put  a  red  cent  o'  my  money  into 
his  pocket — f 'r  there's  where  it  'ud  go  to." 

She  yielded  at  last,  and  received  a  little  bank-book  in  return 


216  Main-Travelled  Roads 

for  her  money.  "Jest  about  all  I'll  ever  get,"  she  said,  privately; 
and  thereafter  out  of  her  brass-bowed  spectacles  with  an  eagle's 
gaze  she  watched  the  banker  go  by.  But  the  banker,  seeing  the 
dear  old  soul  at  the  window  looking  out  at  him,  always  smiled 
and  bowed,  unaware  of  her  suspicion. 

At  the  end  of  the  year  he  bought  the  lot  next  his  rented  house, 
and  began  building  one  of  his  own,  a  modest  little  affair,  shaped 
like  a  pork-pie  with  a  cupola,  or  a  Tam-o'-Shanter  cap — a  style 
of  architecture  which  became  fashionable  at  once. 

He  worked  heroically  to  get  the  location  of  the  plow-factory  at 
Bluff  Siding,  and  all  but  succeeded;  but  Tyre,  once  their  ally, 
turned  against  them,  and  refused  to  consider  the  fact  of  the 
Siding's  position  at  the  centre  of  the  county.  However,  for  some 
reason  or  other,  the  town  woke  up  to  something  of  a  boom  dur- 
ing the  next  two  years.  Several  large  farmers  decided  to  retire  and 
live  off  the  sweat  of  some  other  fellow's  brow,  and  so  built  some 
houses  of  the  pork-pie  order,  and  moved  into  town. 

This  inflow  of  moneyed  men  from  the  country  resulted  in  the 
establishment  of  a  "seminary  of  learning"  on  the  hillside,  where 
the  Soldiers'  Home  was  to  be  located.  This  called  in  more 
farmers  from  the  country,  and  a  new  hotel  was  built,  a  sash- 
and-door  factory  followed,  and  Burt  McPhail  set  up  a  feed- 
mill. 

All  this  improvement  unquestionably  dated  from  the  opening 
of  the  bank,  and  the  most  unreasoning  partisans  of  the  banker 
held  him  to  be  the  chief  cause  of  the  resulting  development  of 
the  town,  though  he  himself  modestly  disclaimed  any  hand  in  the 
affair. 

Had  Bluff  Siding  been  a  city,  the  highest  civic  honors  would 
have  been  open  to  Banker  Sanford ;  indeed,  his  name  was  repeatedly 
mentioned  in  connection  with  the  county  offices. 

"No,  gentlemen,"  he  explained,  firmly,  but  courteously,  in  Wil- 
son's store  one  night;  "I'm  a  banker,  not  a  politician.  I  can't 
ride  two  horses." 

In  the  second  year  of  the  bank's  history  he  went  up  to  the  north 
part  of  the  state  on  business,  visiting  West  Superior,  Duluth, 


A  "Good  Fellow V  Wife  217 

Ashland,  and  other  booming  towns,  and  came  back  full  of  the 
wonders  of  what  he  saw. 

"There's  big  money  up  there,  Nell,"  he  said  to  his  wife. 

But  she  had  the  woman's  tendency  to  hold  fast  to  what  she 
had,  and  would  not  listen  to  any  plans  about  moving. 

"Build  up  your  business  here,  Jim,  and  don't  worry  about 
what  good  chances  there  are  somewhere  else." 

He  said  no  more  about  it,  but  he  took  great  interest  in  all 
the  news  the  "boys"  brought  back  from  their  annual  deer-hunts 
"up  north."  They  were  all  enthusiastic  over  West  Superior  and 
Duluth,  and  their  wonderful  development  was  the  never-ending 
theme  of  discussion  in  Wilson's  store. 

II 

The  first  two  years  of  the  bank's  history  were  solidly  success- 
ful, and  "Jim"  and  "Nellie"  were  the  head  and  front  of  all  good 
works,  and  the  provoking  cause  of  most  of  the  fun.  No  one  seemed 
more  care-free. 

"We  consider  ourselves  just  as  young  as  anybody,"  Mrs.  San- 
ford  would  say,  when  joked  about  going  out  with  the  young 
people  so  much;  but  sometimes  at  home,  after  the  children  were 
asleep,  she  sighed  a  little. 

"Jim,  I  wish  you  was  in  some  kind  of  a  business  so  I  could 
help.  I  don't  have  enough  to  do.  I  s'pose  I  could  mop  an'  dust,  an* 
dust  an'  mop;  but  it  seems  sinful  to  waste  time  that  way.  Can't 
I  do  anything,  Jim?" 

"Why,  no.  If  you  'tend  to  the  children  and  keep  house,  that's 
all  anybody  asks  of  you." 

She  was  silent,  but  not  convinced.  She  had  a  desire  to  do 
something  outside  the  walls  of  her  house — a  desire  transmitted 
to  her  from  her  father,  for  a  woman  inherits  these  things. 

In  the  spring  of  the  second  year  a  number  of  the  depositors 
drew  out  money  to  invest  in  Duluth  and  Superior  lots,  and  the 
whole  town  was  excited  over  the  matter. 

The  summer  passed,  Link  and  Sanford  spending  their  time  in 
the  bank — that  is,  when  not  out  swimming  or  fishing  with  the 


2i8  Main-Travelled  Roads 

boys.  But  July  and  August  were  terribly  hot  and  dry,  and  oats 
and  corn  were  only  half -crop,  and  the  farmers  were  grumbling. 
Some  of  them  were  forced  to  draw  on  the  bank  instead  of 
depositing. 

McPhail  came  in,  one  day  in  November,  to  draw  a  thousand 
dollars  to  pay  for  a  house  and  lot  he  had  recently  bought. 

Sanford  was  alone.  He  whistled.  "Phew!  You're  comin'  at  me 
hard.  Come  in  to-morrow.  Link's  gone  down  to  the  city  to  get 
some  money." 

"All  right,"  said  McPhail;  "any  time." 
"Coin'  t'  snow?" 

"Looks  like  it.  I'll  haf  to  load  a  lot  o}  ca'tridges  ready  f'r  biz." 

About  an  hour  later  old  lady  Bingham  burst  upon  the  banker, 
wild  and  breathless.  "I  want  my  money,"  she  announced. 

"Good-morning,  Mrs.  Bingham.  Pleasant " 

"I  want  my  money.  Where's  Lincoln?" 

She  had  read  that  morning  of  two  bank  failures — one  in  Nova 
Scotia  and  one  in  Massachusetts — and  they  seemed  providential 
warnings  to  her.  Lincoln's  absence  confirmed  them. 

"He's  gone  to  St.  Paul — won't  be  back  till  the  five-o'clock  train. 
Do  you  need  some  money  this  morning?  How  much?" 

"All  of  it,  sir.  Every  cent." 

Sanford  saw  something  was  out  of  gear.  He  tried  to  explain. 
"I've  sent  your  son  to  St.  Paul  after  some  money " 

"Where's  my  money?  What  have  you  done  with  that"!"  In  her 
excitement  she  thought  of  her  money  just  as  she  had  handed  it  in 
— silver  and  little  rolls  and  wads  of  bills. 

"If  you'll  let  me  explain " 

"I  don't  want  you  to  explain  nawthin'.  Jest  hand  me  out  my 
money." 

Two  or  three  loafers,  seeing  her  gesticulate,  stopped  on  the 
walk  outside  and  looked  in  at  the  door.  Sanford  was  annoyed,  but 
he  remained  calm  and  persuasive.  He  saw  that  something  had 
caused  a  panic  in  the  good,  simple  old  woman.  He  wished  for 
Lincoln  as  one  wishes  for  a  policeman  sometimes. 

"Now,  Mrs.  Bingham,  if  you'll  only  wait  till  Lincoln  -  • — " 


A  "Good  Fellow's"  Wife  219 

"I  don't  want  'o  wait.  I  want  my  money,  right  now." 

"Will  fifty  dollars  do?" 

"No,  sir;  I  want  it  all — every  cent  of  it — jest  as  it  was." 

"But  I  can't  do  that.  Your  money  is  gone " 

"Gone?  Where  is  it  gone?  What  have  you  done  with  it?  You 
thief " 

"  'Sh !"  He  tried  to  quiet  her.  "I  mean  I  can't  give  you  your 
money " 

"Why  can't  you?"  she  stormed,  trotting  nervously  on  her  feet 
as  she  stood  there. 

"Because — if  you'd  let  me  explain — we  don't  keep  the  money 
just  as  it  comes  to  us.  We  pay  it  out,  and  take  in  other " 

Mrs.  Bingham  was  getting  more  and  more  bewildered.  She 
now  had  only  one  clear  idea — she  couldn't  get  her  money.  Her 
voice  grew  tearful  like  an  angry  child's. 

"I  want  my  money — I  knew  you'd  steal  it — that  I  worked  for. 
Give  me  my  money." 

Sanford  hastily  handed  her  some  money.  "Here's  fifty  dollars. 
You  can  have  the  rest  when " 

The  old  lady  clutched  the  money,  and  literally  ran  out  of  the 
door,  and  went  off  up  the  sidewalk,  talking  incoherently.  To  every 
one  she  met  she  told  her  story;  but  the  men  smiled  and  passed 
on.  They  had  heard  her  predictions  of  calamity  before. 

But  Mrs.  Mcllvaine  was  made  a  trifle  uneasy  by  it.  "He 
wouldn't  give  you  y'r  money?  Or  did  he  say  he  couldn't!"  she 
inquired,  in  her  moderate  way. 

"He  couldn't,  an'  he  wouldn't!"  she  said.  "If  you've  got  any 
money  there,  you'd  better  get  it  out  quick.  It  ain't  safe  a  minute. 
When  Lincoln  comes  home  I'm  goin'  to  see  if  I  can't " 

"Well,  I  was  calc'latin'  to  go  to  Lumberville  this  week,  any- 
way, to  buy  a  carpet  and  a  chamber  set.  I  guess  I  might  's  well 
get  the  money  to-day." 

When  she  came  in  and  demanded  the  money,  Sanford  was 
scared.  Were  these  two  old  women  the  beginning  of  the  deluge? 
Would  McPhail  insist  on  being  paid  also?  There  was  just  one 


22O  Main-Travelled  Roads 

hundred  dollars  left  in  the  bank,  together  with  a  little  silver. 
With  rare  strategy  he  smiled. 

"Certainly,  Mrs.  Mcllvaine.  How  much  will  you  need?" 

She  had  intended  to  demand  the  whole  of  her  deposit — one 
hundred  and  seventeen  dollars — but  his  readiness  mollified  her  a 
little.  I  did  'low  I'd  take  the  hull,  but  I  guess  seventy-five  dollars 
'11  do." 

He  paid  the  money  briskly  out  over  the  little  glass  shelf.  "How 
is  your  children,  Mrs.  Mcllvaine?" 

"Purty  well,  thanky,"  replied  Mrs.  Mcllvaine,  laboriously 
counting  the  bills. 

"Is  it  all  right?" 

"I  guess  so,"  she  replied,  dubiously.  "I'll  count  it  after  I  get 
home." 

She  went  up  the  street  with  the  feeling  that  the  bank  was  all 
right,  and  she  stepped  in  and  told  Mrs.  Bingham  that  she  had 
no  trouble  in  getting  her  money. 

After  she  had  gone  Sanford  sat  down  and  wrote  a  telegram 
which  he  sent  to  St.  Paul.  This  telegram,  according  to  the  dupli- 
cate at  the  station,  read  in  this  puzzling  way: 

E.  O.,  Exchange  Block,  No.  96.  All  out  of  paper.  Send  five  hundred 
note-heads  and  envelopes  to  match.  Business  brisk.  Press  of  cor- 
respondence just  now.  Get  them  out  quick.  Wire. 

SANFORD. 

Two  or  three  others  came  in  after  a  little  money,  but  he  put 
them  off  easily.  "Just  been  cashing  some  paper,  and  took  all  the 
ready  cash  I  can  spare.  Can't  you  wait  till  to-morrow?  Link's 
gone  down  to  St.  Paul  to  collect  on  some  paper.  Be  back  on  the 
five-o'clock.  Nine  o'clock,  sure." 

An  old  Norwegian  woman  came  in  to  deposit  ten  dollars,  and 
he  counted  it  in  briskly,  and  put  the  amount  down  on  her  little 
book  for  her.  Barney  Mace  came  in  to  deposit  a  hundred  dollars, 
the  proceeds  of  a  horse  sale,  and  this  helped  him  through  the  day. 
Those  who  wanted  small  sums  he  paid. 


A  "Good  Fellow's"  Wife  221 

"Glad  this  ain't  a  big  demand.  Rather  close  on  cash  to-day," 
he  said,  smiling,  as  Lincoln's  wife's  sister  came  in. 

She  laughed.  "I  guess  it  won't  bu'st  yeh.  If  I  thought  it  would, 
I'd  leave  it  in." 

"Bu'sted!"  he  said,  when  Vance  wanted  him  to  cash  a  draft. 
"Can't  do  it.  Sorry{  Van.  Do  it  in  the  morning  all  right.  Can 
you  wait?" 

"Oh,  I  guess  so.  Haf  to,  won't  I?" 

"Curious,"  said  Sanford,  in  a  confidential  way.  "I  don't  know 
that  I  ever  saw  things  get  in  just  such  shape.  Paper  enough — 
but  exchange,  ye  know,  and  readjustment  of  accounts." 

"I  don't  know  much  about  banking,  myself,"  said  Vance,  good- 
naturedly;  "but  I  s'pose  it's  a  good  'eal  same  as  with  a  man. 
Git  short  o'  cash,  first  they  know — 'ain't  got  a  cent  to  spare." 

"That's  the  idea  exactly.  Credit  all  right,  plenty  o'  property, 
but — "  and  he  smiled  and  went  at  his  books.  The  smile  died  out 
of  his  eyes  as  Vance  went  out,  and  he  pulled  a  little  morocco 
book  from  his  pocket  and  began  studying  the  beautiful  columns  of 
figures  with  which  it  seemed  to  be  filled.  Those  he  compared  with 
the  books  with  great  care,  thrusting  the  book  out  of  sight  when 
any  one  entered. 

He  closed  the  bank  as  usual  at  five.  Lincoln  had  not  come — 
couldn't  come  now  till  the  nine-o'clock  accommodation.  For  an 
hour  after  the  shades  were  drawn  he  sat  there  in  the  semi-dark- 
ness, silently  pondering  on  his  situation.  This  attitude  and  deep 
quiet  were  unusual  to  him.  He  heard  the  feet  of  friends  and  neigh- 
bors passing  the  door  as  he  sat  there  by  the  smouldering  coal- 
fire,  in  the  growing  darkness.  There  was  something  impressive 
in  his  attitude. 

He  started  up  at  last,  and  tried  to  see  what  the  hour  was  by 
turning  the  face  of  his  watch  to  the  dull  glow  from  the  cannon- 
stove's  open  door. 

"Supper-time,"  he  said,  and  threw  the  whole  matter  off,  as  if  /ie 
had  decided  it  or  had  put  off  the  decision  till  another  time. 

As  he  went  by  the  post-office  Vance  said  to  Mcllvaine  in  z\ 
smiling  way,  as  if  it  were  a  good  joke  on  Sanford: 


222  Main-Travelled  Roads 

"Little  short  o'  cash  down  at  the  bank." 
"He's  a  good  fellow,"  Mcllvaine  said. 
"So's  his  wife,"  added  Vance,  with  a  chuckle. 

Ill 

That  night,  after  supper,  Sanford  sat  in  his  snug  little  sitting- 
room  with  a  baby  on  each  knee,  looking  as  cheerful  and  happy 
as  any  man  in  the  village.  The  children  crowed  and  shouted 
as  he  "trotted  them  to  Boston,"  or  rode  them  on  the  toe  of  his 
boot.  They  made  a  noisy,  merry  group. 

Mrs.  Sanford  "did  her  own  work,"  and  her  swift  feet  could 
be  heard  moving  to  and  fro  out  in  the  kitchen.  It  was  pleasant 
there,  the  woodwork,  the  furniture,  the  stove,  the  curtains — all 
had  that  look  of  newness  just  growing  into  coziness.  The  coal- 
stove  was  lighted  and  the  curtains  were  drawn. 

After  the  work  in  the  kitchen  was  done,  Mrs.  Sanford  came 
in  and  sat  awhile  by  the  fire  with  the  children,  looking  very  wifely 
in  her  dark  dress  and  white  apron,  her  round,  smiling  face  glow- 
ing with  love  and  pride — the  gloating  look  of  a  mother  seeing 
her  children  in  the  arms  of  her  husband. 

"How  is  Mrs.  Peterson's  baby,  Jim?"  she  said,  suddenly,  her 
face  sobering. 

"Pretty  bad,  I  guess.  La,  la,  la — deedle-dee !  The  doctor  seemed 
to  think  it  was  a  tight  squeak  if  it  lived.  Guess  it's  done  for — 
oop  'e  goes!" 

She  made  a  little  leap  at  the  youngest  child,  and  clasped  it  con- 
vulsively to  her  bosom.  Her  swift  maternal  imagination  had  made 
another's  loss  very  near  and  terrible. 

"Oh,  say,  Nell,"  he  broke  out,  on  seeing  her  sober,  "I  had  the 
confoundedest  time  to-day  with  old  lady  Bingham " 

"  'Sh !  Baby's  gone  to  sleep." 

After  the  children  had  been  put  to  bed  in  the  little  alcove  off 
the  sitting-room,  Mrs.  Sanford  came  back,  to  find  Jim  absorbed 
over  a  little  book  of  accounts. 

"What  are  you  studying,  Jim?" 

Some  one  knocked  on  the  door  before  he  had  time  to  reply. 


A  "Good  Fellow's"  Wife  223 

"Come  in!"  he  said. 

"  'Sh!  Don't  yell  so,"  his  wife  whispered. 

"Telegram,  Jim,"  said  a  voice  in  the  obscurity. 

"Oh!  That  you,  Sam?  Come  in." 

Sam,  a  lathy  fellow  with  a  quid  in  his  cheek,  stepped  in.  "How 
d'  'e  do,  Mis'  Sanford?" 

"Set  down — se'  down." 

"Can't  stop;  'most  train-time." 

Sanford  tore  the  envelope  open,  read  the  telegram  rapidly,  the 
smile  fading  out  of  his  face.  He  read  it  again,  word  for  word, 
then  sat  looking  at  it. 

"Any  answer?"  asked  Sam. 

"No." 

"All  right.  Good-night." 

"Good-night." 

After  the  door  slammed,  Sanford  took  the  sheet  from  the  en- 
velope and  reread  it.  At  length  he  dropped  into  his  chair.  "That 
settles  it,"  he  said,  aloud. 

"Settles  what?  What's  the  news?"  His  wife  came  up  and  looked 
over  his  shoulder. 

"Settles  I've  got  to  go  on  that  nine-thirty  train." 

"Be  back  on  the  morning  train?" 

"Yes;  I  guess  so — I  mean,  of  course — I'll  have  to  be — to  open 
the  bank." 

Mrs.  Sanford  looked  at  him  for  a  few  seconds  in  silence.  There 
was  something  in  his  look,  and  especially  in  his  tone,  that  troubled 
her. 

"What  do  you  mean?  Jim,  you  don't  intend  to  come  back!" 
She  took  his  arm.  "What's  the  matter?  Now  tell  me!  What  are 
you  going  away  for?" 

He  knew  he  could  not  deceive  his  wife's  ears  and  eyes  just 
then,  so  he  remained  silent.  "We've  got  to  leave,  Nell,"  he  ad- 
mitted at  last. 

"Why?  What  for?" 

"Because  I'm  bu'sted — broke — gone  up  the  spout — and  all  the 


224  Main-Travelled  Roads 

rest!"  he  said,  desperately,  with  an  attempt  at  fun.  "Mrs.  Bing- 
ham  and  Mrs.  Mcllvaine  have  bu'sted  me — dead." 

"Why — why — what  has  become  of  the  money — all  the  money 
the  people  have  put  in  there?" 

"Gone  up  with  the  rest." 

"What  Ve  you  done  with  it?  I  don't " 

"Well,   I've  invested  it — and  lost  it." 

"James  Gordon  Sanford!"  she  exclaimed,  trying  to  realize  it. 
"Was  that  right?  Ain't  that  a  case  of — of " 

"Shouldn't  wonder.  A  case  of  embezzlement  such  as  you  read 
of  in  the  newspapers."  His  tone  was  easy,  but  he  avoided  the 
look  in  his  wife's  beautiful  gray  eyes. 

"But  it's — stealing — ain't  it?"  She  stared  at  him,  bewildered 
by  his  reckless  lightness  of  mood. 

"It  is  now,  because  I've  lost.  If  I'd  V  won  it,  it  'ud  'a'  been 
financial  shrewdness!" 

She  asked  her  next  question  after  a  pause,  in  a  low  voice, 
and  through  teeth  almost  set.  "Did  you  go  into  this  bank  to — 
steal  this  money?  Tell  me  that!" 

"No ;  I  didn't,  Nell.  I  ain't  quite  up  to  that." 

His  answer  softened  her  a  little,  and  she  sat  looking  at  him 
steadily  as  he  went  on.  The  tears  began  to  roll  slowly  down  her 
cheeks.  Her  hands  were  clenched. 

"The  fact  is,  the  idea  came  into  my  head  last  fall  when  I  went 
up  to  Superior.  My  partner  wanted  me  to  go  in  with  him  on  some 
land,  and  I  did.  We  speculated  on  the  growth  of  the  town  to- 
ward the  south.  We  made  a  strike ;  then  he  wanted  me  to  go  in  on  a 
copper-mine.  Of  course  I  expected " 

As  he  went  on  with  the  usual  excuses  her  mind  made  all  the 
allowances  possible  for  him.  He  had  always  been  boyish,  im- 
pulsive, and  lacking  in  judgment  and  strength  of  character.  She 
was  humiliated  and  frightened,  but  she  loved  and  sympathized 
with  him. 

Her  silence  alarmed  him,  and  he  made  excuses  for  himself.  He 
was  speculating  for  her  sake  more  than  for  his  own,  and  so  on. 

"Choo — choo!"  whistled  the  far-off  train  through  the  still  air. 


A  "Good  Fellow's"  Wife  225 

He  sprang  up  and  reached  for  his  coat. 

She  seized  his  arm  again.  "Where  are  you  going?"  she  sternly 
asked. 

"To  take  that  train." 

"When  are  you  coming  back?" 

"I  don't  know."  But  his  tone  said,  "Never." 

She  felt  it.  Her  face  grew  bitter.  "Going  to  leave  me  and — 
the  babies?" 

"I'll  send  for  you  soon.  Come,  good-by!"  He  tried  to  put  his 
arm  about  her.  She  stepped  back. 

"Jim,  if  you  leave  me  to-night"  ("Choo — choo!"  whistled  the 
engine),  "you  leave  me  forever."  There  was  a  terrible  resolu- 
tion in  her  tone. 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"I  mean  that  I'm  going  to  stay  here.  If  you  go — I'll  never 
be  your  wife — again — never!"  She  glanced  at  the  sleeping  chil- 
dren, and  her  chin  trembled. 

"I  can't  face  those  fellows — they'll  kill  me,"  he  said,  in  a  sul- 
len tone. 

"No,  they  won't.  They'll  respect  you,  if  you  stay  and  tell  'em 
exactly  how — it — all — is.  You've  disgraced  me  and  my  children, 
that's  what  you've  done!  If  you  don't  stay " 

The  clear  jangle  of  the  engine-bell  sounded  through  the  night 
as  with  the  whiz  of  escaping  steam  and  scrape  and  jar  of  gripping 
brakes  and  howl  of  wheels  the  train  came  to  a  stop  at  the  station. 
Sanford  dropped  his  coat  and  sat  down  again. 

"I'll  have  to  stay  now."  His  tone  was  dry  and  lifeless.  It  had 
a  reproach  in  it  that  cut  the  wife  deep — deep  as  the  fountain  of 
tears;  and  she  went  across  the  room  and  knelt  at  the  bedside, 
burying  her  face  in  the  clothes  on  the  feet  of  her  children,  and 
sobbed  silently. 

The  man  sat  with  bent  head,  looking  into  the  glowing  coal, 
whistling  through  his  teeth,  a  look  of  sullen  resignation  and  en- 
durance on  his  face  that  had  never  been  there  before.  His  very 
attitude  was  alien  and  ominous. 


226  Main-Travelled  Roads 

Neither  spoke  for  a  long  time.  At  last  he  rose  and  began  taking 
off  his  coat  and  vest. 

"Well,  I  suppose  there's  nothing  to  do  but  go  to  bed." 

She  did  not  stir — she  might  have  been  asleep  so  far  as  any 
sound  or  motion  was  concerned.  He  went  off  to  the  bed  in  the 
little  parlor,  and  she  still  knelt  there,  her  heart  full  of  anger, 
bitterness,  sorrow. 

The  sunny  uneventfulness  of  her  past  life  made  this  great 
storm  the  more  terrifying.  Her  trust  in  her  husband  had  been 
absolute.  A  farmer's  daughter,  the  bank  clerk  had  seemed  to  her 
the  equal  of  any  gentleman  in  the  world — her  world;  and  when 
she  knew  his  delicacy,  his  unfailing  kindness,  and  his  abounding 
good  nature,  she  had  accepted  him  as  the  father  of  her  children, 
and  this  was  the  first  revelation  to  her  of  his  inherent  moral  weak- 
ness. 

Her  mind  went  over  the  whole  ground  again  and  again,  in  a 
sort  of  blinding  rush.  She  was  convinced  of  his  lack  of  honor 
more  by  his  tone,  his  inflections,  than  by  his  words.  His  lack  of 
deep  regret,  his  readiness  to  leave  her  to  bear  the  whole  shock 
of  the  discovery — these  were  in  his  flippant  tones;  and  every  time 
she  thought  of  them  the  hot  blood  surged  over  her.  At  such 
moments  she  hated  him,  and  her  white  teeth  clenched. 

To  these  moods  succeeded  others,  when  she  remembered  his 
smile,  the  dimple  in  his  chin,  his  tender  care  for  the  sick,  his 
buoyancy,  his  songs  to  the  children —  How  could  he  sit  there,  with 
the  children  on  his  knees,  and  plan  to  run  away,  leaving  them 
disgraced  ? 

She  went  to  bed  at  last  with  the  babies,  and  with  their  soft, 
warm  little  bodies  touching  her  side  fell  asleep,  pondering,  suffer- 
ing as  only  a  mother  and  wife  can  suffer  when  distrust  and  doubt 
of  her  husband  supplant  confidence  and  adoration. 

IV 

The  children  awakened  her  by  their  delighted  cooing  and  kiss- 
ing. It  was  a  great  event,  this  waking  to  find  mamma  in  their 
bed.  It  was  hardly  light,  of  a  dull  gray  morning;  and  with  the 


A  "Good  Fellow's"  Wife  227 

children  tumbling  about  over  her,  feeling  the  pressure  of  the 
warm  little  hands  and  soft  lips,  she  went  over  the  whole  situa- 
tion again,  and  at  last  settled  upon  her  action. 

She  rose,  shook  down  the  coal  in  the  stove  in  the  sitting-room, 
and  started  a  fire  in  the  kitchen;  then  she  dressed  the  children  by 
the  coal-burner.  The  elder  of  them,  as  soon  as  dressed,  ran  in  to 
wake  "poppa"  while  the  mother  went  about  breakfast-getting. 

Sanford  came  out  of  his  bedroom  unwontedly  gloomy,  greet- 
ing the  children  in  a  subdued  manner.  He  shivered  as  he  sat  by 
the  fire,  and  stirred  the  stove  as  if  he  thought  the  room  was  cold. 
His  face  was  pale  and  moist. 

"Breakfast  is  ready,  James,"  called  Mrs.  Sanford,  in  a  tone 
which  she  meant  to  be  habitual,  but  which  had  a  cadence  of  sad- 
ness in  it. 

Someway,  he  found  it  hard  to  look  at  her  as  he  came  out.  She 
busied  herself  with  placing  the  children  at  the  table,  in  order  to 
conceal  her  own  emotion. 

"I  don't  believe  I'll  eat  any  meat  this  morning,  Nellie.  I  ain't 
very  well." 

She  glanced  at  him  quickly,  keenly.  "What's  the  matter?" 

"I  d'know.  My  stomach  is  kind  of  upset  by  this  failure  o' 
mine.  I'm  in  great  shape  to  go  down  to  the  bank  this  morning — 
and  face  them  fellows " 

"It's  got  to  be  done." 

"I  know  it;  but  that  don't  help  me  any."  He  tried  to  smile. 

She  mused,  while  the  baby  hammered  on  his  tin  plate. 

"You've  got  to  go  down.  If  you  don't — I  will,"  said  she, 
resolutely.  "And  you  must  say  that  that  money  will  be  paid 
back — every  cent." 

"But  that's  more'n  I  can  do " 

"It  must  be  done." 

"But  under  the  law " 

"There's  nothing  can  make  this  thing  right  except  paying  every 
cent  we  owe.  I  ain't  a-goin'  to  have  it  said  that  my  children — that 
I'm  livin'  on  somebody  else.  If  you  don't  pay  these  debts,  I  will. 
I've  thought  it  all  out.  If  you  don't  stay  and  face  it,  and  pay 
these  men,  I  won't  own  you  as  my  husband.  I  loved  and  trusted 


228  Main-Travelled  Roads 

you,  Jim — I  thought  you  was  honorable — it's  been  a  terrible 
blow — but  I've  decided  it  all  in  my  mind." 

She  conquered  her  little  weakness,  and  went  on  to  the  end 
firmly.  Her  face  looked  pale.  There  was  a  square  look  about  the 
mouth  and  chin.  The  iron  resolution  and  Puritanic  strength  of 
her  father,  old  John  Foreman,  had  come  to  the  surface.  Her 
look  and  tone  mastered  the  man,  for  he  loved  her  deeply. 

She  had  set  him  a  hard  task,  and  when  he  rose  and  went  down 
the  street  he  walked  with  bent  head,  quite  unlike  his  usual  self. 

There  were  not  many  men  on  the  street.  It  seemed  earlier  than 
it  was,  for  it  was  a  raw,  cold  morning,  promising  snow.  The  sun 
was  completely  masked  in  a  seamless  dust-gray  cloud.  He  met 
Vance  with  a  brown  parcel  (beefsteak  for  breakfast)  under  his 
arm. 

"Hello,  Jim!  How  are  ye,  so  early  in  the  morning?" 

"Blessed  near  used  up." 

"That  so?  What's  the  matter?" 

"I  d'know,"  said  Jim,  listlessly.  "Bilious,  I  guess.  Headache 
— stomach  bad." 

"Oh !  Well,  now,  you  try  them  pills  I  was  tellin'  you  of." 

Arrived  at  the  bank,  he  let  himself  in,  and  locked  the  door 
behind  him.  He  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  floor  a  few  minutes, 
then  went  behind  the  railing  and  sat  down.  He  didn't  build  a 
fire,  though  it  was  cold  and  damp,  and  he  shivered  as  he  sat  lean- 
ing on  the  desk.  At  length  he  drew  a  large  sheet  of  paper  toward 
him  and  wrote  something  on  it  in  a  heavy  hand. 

He  was  writing  on  this  when  Lincoln  entered  at  the  back, 
whistling  boyishly.  "Hello,  Jim!  Ain't  you  up  early?  No  fire, 
eh?"  He  rattled  at  the  stove. 

Sanford  said  nothing,  but  finished  his  writing.  Then  he  said, 
quietly,  "You  needn't  build  a  fire  on  my  account,  Link." 

"Why  not?" 

"Well,  I'm  used  up." 

"What's  the  matter?" 

"I'm  sick,  and  the  business  has  gone  to  the  devil."  He  looked 
out  of  the  window. 


A  "Good  Fellow's"  Wife  229 

Link  dropped  the  poker,  and  came  around  behind  the  counter, 
and  stared  at  Sanford  with  fallen  mouth. 

"Wha'd  you  say?" 

"I  said  the  business  had  gone  to  the  devil.  We're  broke — 
bu'sted — petered — gone  up  the  spout."  He  took  a  sort  of  morbid 
pleasure  in  saying  these  things. 

"What's  bu'sted  us?  Have " 

"I've  been  speculatin'  in  copper.  My  partner's  bu'sted  me." 

Link  came  closer.  His  mouth  stiffened  and  an  ominous  look 
came  into  his  eyes.  "You  don't  mean  to  say  you've  lost  my  money, 
and  mother's,  and  Uncle  Andrew's,  and  all  the  rest?" 

Sanford  was  getting  irritated.  " it!  What's  the  use?  I  tell 

you,  yes\  It's  all  gone — every  cent  of  it." 

Link  caught  him  by  the  shoulder  as  he  sat  at  the  desk.  San- 
ford's  tone  enraged  him.  "You  thief!  But  you'll  pay  me  back,  or 
I'll " 

"Oh,  go  ahead!  Pound  a  sick  man,  if  it  '11  do  you  any  good," 
said  Sanford,  with  a  peculiar  recklessness  of  lifeless  misery.  "Pay 
y'rself  out  of  the  safe.  Here's  the  combination." 

Lincoln  released  him,  and  began  turning  the  knob  of  the  door. 
At  last  it  swung  open,  and  he  searched  the  money-drawers.  Less 
than  forty  dollars,  all  told.  His  voice  was  full  of  helpless  rage  as 
he  turned  at  last  and  walked  up  close  to  Sanford's  bowed  head. 

"I'd  like  to  pound  the  life  out  o'  you!" 

"You're  at  liberty  to  do  so,  if  it  '11  be  any  satisfaction." 

This  desperate  courage  awed  the  younger  man.  He  gazed  at 
Sanford  in  amazement. 

"If  you'll  cool  down  and  wait  a  little,  Link,  I'll  tell  you  all 
about  it.  I'm  sick  as  a  horse.  I  guess  I'll  go  home.  You  can  put 
this  up  in  the  window,  and  go  home,  too,  if  you  want  to." 

Lincoln  saw  that  Sanford  was  sick.  He  was  shivering,  and 
drops  of  sweat  were  on  his  white  forehead.  Lincoln  stood  aside 
silently,  and  let  him  go  out. 

"Better  lock  up,  Link.  You  can't  do  anything  by  staying  here." 

Lincoln  took  refuge  in  a  boyish  phrase  that  would  have  made 
any  one  but  a  sick  man  laugh:  "Well,  this  is  a of  a  note!" 


230  Main-Travelled  Roads 

He  took  up  the  paper.  It  read : 

BANK  CLOSED 


TO  MY  CREDITORS  AND  DEPOSITORS 

Through  a  combination  of  events  I  find  myself  obliged  to  tem- 
porarily suspend  payment.  I  ask  the  depositors  to  be  patient,  and 
their  claims  will  be  met.  I  think  I  can  pay  twenty-five  cents  on  the 
dollar,  if  given  a  little  time.  I  shall  not  run  away.  I  shall  stay  right 
here  till  all  matters  are  honorably  settled. 

JAMES  G.  SANFORD. 

Lincoln  hastily  pinned  this  paper  to  the  window-sash  so  that 
it  could  be  seen  from  without,  then  pulled  down  the  blinds  and 
locked  the  door.  His  fun-loving  nature  rose  superior  to  his  rage 
for  the  moment.  "There'll  be  the  devil  to  pay  in  this  burg  before 
two  hours." 

He  slipped  out  the  back  way,  taking  the  keys  with  him.  "I'll 
go  and  tell  uncle,  and  then  well  see  if  Jim  can't  turn  in  the  house 
on  our  account,"  he  thought,  as  he  harnessed  a  team  to  drive  out 
to  McPhail's. 

The  first  man  to  try  the  door  was  an  old  Norwegian  in  a 
spotted  Mackinac  jacket  and  a  fur  cap,  with  the  inevitable  little 
red  tippet  about  his  neck.  He  turned  the  knob,  knocked,  and  at 
last  saw  the  writing,  which  he  could  not  read,  and  went  away 
to  tell  Johnson  that  the  bank  was  closed.  Johnson  thought  noth- 
ing special  of  that ;  it  was  early,  and  they  weren't  very  particular 
to  open  on  time,  anyway. 

Then  the  barber  across  the  street  tried  to  get  in  to  have  a  bill 
changed.  Trying  to  peer  in  the  window,  he  saw  the  notice,  which 
he  read  with  a  grin. 

"One  o'  Link's  jobs,"  he  explained  to  the  fellows  in  the  shop. 
"He's  too  darned  lazy  to  open  on  time,  so  he  puts  up  notice  that 
the  bank  is  bu'sted." 

"Let's  go  and  see." 

"Don't  do  it!  He's  watchm'  to  see  us  all  rush  across  and  look. 
Just  keep  quiet,  and  see  the  solid  citizens  rear  around." 


A  "Good  Fellow's"  Wife  231 

Old  Orrin  Mcllvaine  came  out  of  the  post-office  and  tried  the 
door  next,  then  stood  for  a  long  time  reading  the  notice,  and  at 
last  walked  thoughtfully  away.  Soon  he  returned,  to  the  merri- 
ment of  the  fellows  in  the  barber  shop,  with  two  or  three  solid 
citizens  who  had  been  smoking  an  after-breakfast  cigar  and  plan- 
ning a  deer-hunt.  They  stood  before  the  window  in  a  row  and 
read  the  notice.  Mcllvaine  gesticulated  with  his  cigar. 

"Gentlemen,  there's  a  pig  loose  here." 

"One  o'  Link's  jokes,  I  reckon." 

"But  that's  Sanford's  writin'.  An'  here  it  is  nine  o'clock,  and 
no  one  round.  I  don't  like  the  looks  of  it,  myself." 

The  crowd  thickened;  the  fellows  came  out  of  the  blacksmith 
shop,  while  the  jokers  in  the  barbershop  smote  their  knees  and 
yelled  with  merriment. 

"What's  up  ?"  queried  Vance,  coming  up  and  repeating  the  uni- 
versal question. 

Mcllvaine  pointed  at  the  poster  with  his  cigar. 

Vance  read  the  notice,  while  the  crowd  waited  silently. 

"What  ye  think  of  it?"  asked  some  one,  impatiently. 

Vance  smoked  a  moment.  "Can't  say.  Where's  Jim?" 

"That's  it!  Where  is  he?" 

"Best  way  to  find  out  is  to  send  a  boy  up  to  the  house."  He 
called  a  boy  and  sent  him  scurrying  up  the  street. 

The  crowd  now  grew  sober  and  discussed  possibilities. 

"//  that's  true,  it's  the  worst  crack  on  the  head  /  ever  had," 
said  Mcllvaine.  "Seventen  hundred  dollars  is  my  pile  in  there." 
He  took  a  seat  on  the  window-sill. 

"Well,  I'm  tickled  to  death  to  think  I  got  my  little  stake  out 
before  anything  happened." 

"When  you  think  of  it — what  security  did  he  ever  give?"  Mc- 
llvaine continued. 

"Not  a  cent — not  a  red  cent." 

"No,  sir;  we  simply  banked  on  him.  Now,  he's  a  good  fellow, 
an*  this  may  be  a  joke  o'  Link's;  but  the  fact  is,  it  might  'a'  hap- 
pened. Well,  sonny?"  he  said  to  the  boy.  who  came  running  up. 


232  Main-Travelled  Roads 

"Link  ain't  to  home,  an'  Mrs.  Sanford  she  says  Jim's  sick, 
an'  can't  come  down." 

There  was  a  silence.  "Anybody  see  him  this  morning?"  asked 
Wilson. 

"Yes;  I  saw  him,"  said  Vance.  "Looked  bad,  too." 

The  crowd  changed;  people  came  and  went,  some  to  get  news, 
some  to  carry  it  away.  In  a  short  time  the  whole  town  knew  the 
bank  had  "bu'sted  all  to  smash."  Farmers  drove  along,  and 
stopped  to  find  out  what  it  all  meant.  The  more  they  talked,  the 
more  excited  they  grew;  and  "Scoundrel,"  and  "I  always  had  my 
doubts  of  that  feller,"  were  phrases  growing  more  frequent. 

The  list  of  the  victims  grew  until  it  was  evident  that  nearly 
all  of  the  savings  of  a  dozen  or  more  depositors  were  swallowed 
up,  and  the  sum  reached  was  nearly  twenty  thousand  dollars. 

"What  did  he  do  with  it?"  was  the  question.  He  never  gambled 
or  drank.  He  lived  frugally.  There  was  no  apparent  cause  for 
this  failure  of  a  trusted  institution. 

It  was  beginning  to  snow  in  great,  damp,  driving  flakes,  which 
melted  as  they  fell,  giving  to  the  street  a  strangeness  and  gloom 
that  were  impressive.  The  men  left  the  sidewalk  at  last,  and 
gathered  in  the  saloons  and  stores  to  continue  the  discussion. 

The  crowd  at  the  railroad  saloon  was  very  decided  in  its  belief. 
Sanford  had  pocketed  the  money  and  skipped.  That  yarn  about 
his  being  at  home  sick  was  a  blind.  Some  went  so  far  as  to  say 
that  it  was  almighty  curious  where  Link  was,  hinting  darkly 
that  the  bank  ought  to  be  broken  into,  and  so  on. 

Upon  this  company  burst  Barney  and  Sam  Mace  from  "Hogan's 
Corners."  They  were  excited  by  the  news  and  already  inflamed 
with  drink. 

"Say!"  yelled  Barney,  "any  o'  you  fellers  know  anything  about 
Jim  Sanford?" 

"No.  Why?  Got  any  money  there?" 

"Yes;  and  I'm  goin'  to  git  it  out,  if  I  haf  to  smash  the  door  in." 

"That's  the  talk !"  shouted  some  of  the  loafers.  They  sprang  up 
and  surrounded  Barney.  There  was  something  in  his  voice  that 
aroused  all  their  latent  ferocity.  "I'm  goin'  to  get  into  that  bank 


A  "Good  Fellow's"  Wife  233 

an'  see  how  things  look,  an'  then  I'm  goin'  to  find  Sanford  an' 
get  my  money,  or  pound  out  of  'im,  one  o'  the  six." 

"Go  find  him  first.  He's  up  home,  sick — so's  his  wife." 

"I'll  see  whether  he's  sick  'r  not.  I'll  drag  'im  out  by  the  scruff 
o'  the  neck!  Come  on!"  He  ended  with  a  sudden  resolution,  lead- 
ing the  way  out  into  the  street,  where  the  falling  snow  was  soften- 
ing the  dirt  into  a  sticky  mud. 

A  rabble  of  a  dozen  or  two  of  men  and  boys  followed  Mace 
up  the  street.  He  led  the  way  with  great  strides,  shouting  his 
threats.  As  they  passed  along,  women  thrust  their  heads  out  at 
the  windows,  asking,  "What's  the  matter?"  And  some  one 
answered  each  time,  in  a  voice  of  unconcealed  delight: 

"Sanford's  stole  all  the  money  in  the  bank,  and  they're  goin' 
up  to  lick  'im.  Come  on  if  ye  want  to  see  the  fun." 

In  a  few  moments  the  street  looked  as  if  an  alarm  of  fire  had 
been  sounded.  Half  the  town  seemed  to  be  out,  and  the  other 
half  coming — women  in  shawls,  like  squaws;  children  capering 
and  laughing ;  young  men  grinning  at  the  girls  who  came  out  and 
stood  at  the  gates. 

Some  of  the  citizens  tried  to  stop  it.  Vance  found  the  constable 
looking  on,  and  ordered  him  to  do  his  duty  and  stop  that  crowd. 

"I  can't  do  anything,"  he  said,  helplessly.  "They  ain't  done 
nawthin'  yet,  an'  I  don't  know " 

"Oh,  git  out!  They're  goin'  up  there  to  whale  Jim,  an*  you 
know  it.  If  you  don't  stop  'em,  I'll  telephone  f'r  the  sheriff,  and 
have  you  arrested  with  'em." 

Under  this  pressure,  the  constable  ran  along  after  the  crowd, 
in  an  attempt  to  stop  it.  He  reached  them  as  they  stood  about 
the  little  porch  of  the  house,  packed  closely  around  Barney  and 
Sam,  who  said  nothing,  but  followed  Barney  like  his  shadow. 
If  the  sun  had  been  shining,  it  might  not  have  happened  as  it  did ; 
but  there  was  a  semi-obscurity,  a  weird  half-light  shed  by  the  thick 
sky  and  falling  snow,  which  somehow  encouraged  the  enraged 
ruffians,  who  pounded  on  the  door  just  as  the  pleading  voice  of 
the  constable  was  heard. 

"Hold  on,  gentlemen!  This  is  ag'inst  the  law " 


234  Main-Travelled  Roads 

"Law  to  !"  said  some  one.  "This  is  a  case  f'r  something 

besides  law." 

"Open  up  there!"  roared  the  raucous  voice  of  Barney  Mace, 
as  he  pounded  at  the  door  fiercely. 

The  door  opened,  and  the  wife  appeared,  one  child  in  her  arms, 
the  other  at  her  side. 

"What  do  you  want?" 

"Where's  that  banker?  Tell  the  thief  to  come  out  here!  We 
want  to  talk  with  him." 

The  woman  did  not  quail,  but  her  face  seemed  a  ghastly  yel- 
low, seen  through  the  falling  snow. 

"He  can't  come.  He's  sick." 

"Sick!  We'll  sick  'im!  Tell  'im  t'  come  out,  or  we'll  snake  'im 
out  by  the  heels."  The  crowd  laughed.  The  worst  elements  of  the 
saloons  surrounded  the  two  half-savage  men.  It  was  amusing  to 
them  to  see  the  woman  face  them  all  in  that  way. 

"Where's  McPhail?"  Vance  inquired,  anxiously.  "Somebody 
find  McPhail." 

"Stand  out  o'  the  way!"  snarled  Barney,  as  he  pushed  the 
struggling  woman  aside. 

The  wife  raised  her  voice  to  that  wild,  animal-like  pitch  a  woman 
uses  when  desperate. 

"I  sha'n't  do  it,  I  tell  you!  Help\" 

"Keep  out  o'  my  way,  or  I'll  wring  y'r  neck  f'r  yeh." 

She  struggled  with  him,  but  he  pushed  her  aside  and  entered 
the  room. 

"What's  goin'  on  here?"  called  the  ringing  voice  of  Andrew 
McPhail,  who  had  just  driven  up  with  Link. 

Several  of  the  crowd  looked  over  their  shoulders  at  McPhail. 

"Hello,  Mac!  Just  in  time.  Oh,  nawthin'.  Barney's  callin'  on 
the  banker,  that's  all." 

Over  the  heads  of  the  crowd,  packed  struggling  about  the  door, 
came  the  woman's  scream  again.  McPhail  dashed  around  the 
crowd,  running  two  or  three  of  them  down,  and  entered  the  back 
door.  Vance,  Mcllvaine,  and  Lincoln  followed  him. 

"Cowards!"  the  wife  said,  as  the  ruffians  approached  the  bed. 


A  "Good  Fellow's"  Wife  235 

They  swept  her  aside,  but  paused  an  instant  before  the  glance 
of  the  sick  man's  eye.  He  lay  there,  desperately,  deathly  sick.  The 
blood  throbbed  in  his  whirling  brain,  his  eyes  were  bloodshot  and 
blinded,  his  strength  was  gone.  He  could  hardly  speak.  He  partly 
rose  and  stretched  out  his  hand,  and  then  fell  back. 

"Kill  me — if  you  want  to — but  let  her — alone.  She's " 

The  children  were  crying.  The  wind  whistled  drearily  across 
the  room,  carrying  the  evanescent  flakes  of  soft  snow  over  the  heads 
of  the  pausing,  listening  crowd  in  the  doorway.  Quick  steps  were 
heard. 

"Hold  on  there!"  cried  McPhail,  as  he  burst  into  the  room.  He 
seemed  an  angel  of  God  to  the  wife  and  mother. 

He  spread  his  great  arms  in  a  gesture  which  suggested  irresist- 
ible strength  and  resolution.  "Clear  out!  Out  with  ye!" 

No  man  had  ever  seen  him  look  like  that  before.  He  awed  them 
with  the  look  in  his  eyes.  His  long  service  as  sheriff  gave  him 
authority.  He  hustled  them,  cuffed  them  out  of  the  door  like 
school-boys.  Barney  backed  out,  cursing.  He  knew  McPhail  too 
well  to  refuse  to  obey. 

McPhail  pushed  Barney  out,  shut  the  door  behind  him,  and 
stood  on  the  steps,  looking  at  the  crowd. 

"Well,  you're  a  great  lot!  You  fellers,  would  ye  jump  on  a 
sick  man?  What  ye  think  ye're  all  doin',  anyhow?" 

The  crowd  laughed.  "Hey,  Mac;  give  us  a  speech!" 

"You  ought  to  be  booted,  the  whole  lot  o'  yeh !"  he  replied. 

"That  houn'  in  there's  run  the  bank  into  the  ground,  with 
every  cent  o'  money  we'd  put  in,"  said  Barney.  "I  s'pose  ye  know 
that." 

"Well,  s'pose  he  has — what's  the  use  o'  jumpin'  on  'im?" 

"Git  it  out  of  his  hide." 

"I've  heerd  that  talk  before.  How  much  you  got  in?" 

"Two  hundred  dollars." 

"Well,    I've  got  two  thousand."  The  crowd   saw  the  point. 

"I  guess  if  anybody  was  goin'  t'  take  it  out  of  his  hide,  I'd  be 
the  man;  but  I  want  the  feller  to  live  and  have  a  chance  to  pay 
it  back.  Killin'  'im  is  a  dead  loss." 


236  Main-Travelled  Roads 

"That's  so!"  shouted  somebody.  "Mac  ain't  no  fool,  if  he  does 
chaw  hay,"  said  another,  and  the  crowd  laughed.  They  were  los- 
ing that  frenzy,  largely  imitative  and  involuntary,  which  actu- 
ates a  mob.  There  was  something  counteracting  in  the  ex-sheriff's 
cool,  humorous  tone. 

"Give  us  the  rest  of  it,  Mac!" 

"The  rest  of  it  is — clear  out  o'  here,  'r  I'll  boot  every  mother's 
son  of  yeh!" 

"Can't  do  it!" 

"Come  down  an'  try  it!" 

Mcllvaine  opened  the  door  and  looked  out.  "Mac,  Mrs.  San- 
ford  wants  to  say  something — if  it's  safe." 

"Safe  as  eatin'  dinner." 

Mrs.  Sanford  came  out,  looking  pale  and  almost  like  a  child 
as  she  stood  beside  her  defender's  towering  bulk.  But  her  face  was 
resolute. 

"That  money  will  be  paid  back,"  she  said,  "dollar  for  dollar, 
if  you'll  just  give  us  a  chance.  As  soon  as  Jim  gets  well  enough 
tvery  cent  will  be  paid,  if  I  live." 

The  crowd  received  this  little  speech  in  silence.  One  or  two  said, 
in  low  voices:  "That's  business.  She'll  do  it,  too,  if  any  one  can." 

Barney  pushed  his  way  through  the  crowd  with  contemptuous 
curses.  "The she  will!"  he  said. 

"We'll  see  't  you  have  a  chance,"  McPhail  and  Mcllvaine  as- 
sured Mrs.  Sanford. 

She  went  in  and  closed  the  door. 

"Now  git\"  said  Andrew,  coming  down  the  steps.  The  crowd 
scattered  with  laughing  taunts.  He  turned,  and  entered  the  house. 
The  rest  drifted  off  down  the  street  through  the  soft  flurries  of 
snow,  and  in  a  few  moments  the  street  assumed  its  usual  appear- 
ance. 

The  failure  of  the  bank  and  the  raid  on  the  banker  had  passed 
into  history. 


In  the  light  of  the  days  of  calm  afterthought  which  followed, 
this  attempt  upon   the  peace  of  the  Sanford  home   grew  more 


A  "Good  Fellow's"  Wife  237 

monstrous,  and  helped  largely  to  mitigate  the  feeling  against  the 
banker.  Besides,  he  had  not  run  away;  that  was  a  strong  point  in 
his  favor. 

"Don't  that  show,"  argued  Vance,  in  the  post-office — "don't  that 
show  he  didn't  intend  to  steal?  An'  don't  it  show  he's  goin'  to 
try  to  make  things  square?" 

"I  guess  we  might  as  well  think  that  as  anything." 

"I  claim  the  boys  has  a  right  t'  take  sumpthin'  out  o'  his  hide," 
Bent  Wilson  stubbornly  insisted. 

"Ain't  enough  t'  go  'round,"  laughed  McPhail.  "Besides,  I 
can't  have  it.  Link  an'  I  own  the  biggest  share  in  'im,  an'  we  can't 
have  him  hurt." 

Mcllvaine  and  Vance  grinned.  "That's  a  fact,  Mac.  We  four 
fellers  are  the  main  losers.  He's  ours,  anj  we  can't  have  him 
foundered  'r  crippled  'r  cut  up  in  any  way.  Ain't  that  woman  of 
his  gritty?" 

"Gritty  ain't  no  name  for  her.  She's  goin'  into  business." 

"So  I  hear.  They  say  Jim  was  crawling  around  a  little  yester- 
day. I  didn't  see  'im." 

"I  did.  He  looks  pretty  streak-id — now  you  bet." 

"What'd  he  say  for  himself?" 

"Oh,  said  give  'im  time — he'd  fix  it  all  up." 

"How  much  time  ?" 

"Time  enough.  Hain't  been  able  to  look  at  a  book  since.  Say, 
ain't  it  a  little  curious  he  was  so  sick  just  then — sick  as  a  p'isened 
dog?" 

The  two  men  looked  at  each  other  in  a  manner  most  comically 
significant.  The  thought  of  poison  was  in  the  mind  of  each. 

It  was  under  these  trying  circumstances  that  Sanford  began 
to  crawl  about,  a  week  or  ten  days  after  his  sickness.  It  was  really 
the  most  terrible  punishment  for  him.  Before,  everybody  used  to 
sing  out,  "Hello,  Jim!"  or  "Mornin',  banker,"  or  some  other 
jovial,  heart-warming  salutation.  Now,  as  he  went  down  the 
street,  the  groups  of  men  smoking  on  the  sunny  side  of  the  stores 
ignored  him,  or  looked  at  him  with  scornful  eyes. 

Nobody  said,  "Hello,  Jim!" — not  even  McPhail  or  Vance. 
They  nodded  merely,  and  went  on  with  their  smoking.  The  chil- 


238  Main-Travelled  Roads 

dren  followed  him  and  stared  at  him  without  compassion.  They 
had  heard  him  called  a  scoundrel  and  a  thief  too  often  at  home  to 
feel  any  pity  for  his  pale  face. 

After  his  first  trip  down  the  street,  bright  with  the  December 
sunshine,  he  came  home  in  a  bitter,  weak  mood,  smarting,  aching 
with  a  poignant  self-pity  over  the  treatment  he  had  received  from 
his  old  cronies. 

"It's  all  your  fault,"  he  burst  out  to  his  wife.  "If  you'd  only 
let  me  go  away  and  look  up  another  place  I  wouldn't  have  to 
put  up  with  all  these  sneers  and  insults." 

"What  sneers  and  insults?"  she  asked,  coming  over  to  him. 

"Why,  nobody  '11  speak  to  me." 

"Won't  Mr.  McPhail  and  Mr.  Mcllvaine?" 

"Yes;  but  not  as  they  used  to." 

"You  can't  blame  'em,  Jim.  You  must  go  to  work  and  win  back 
their  confidence." 

"I  can't  do  that.  Let's  go  away,  Nell,  and  try  again." 

Her  mouth  closed  firmly.  A  hard  look  came  into  her  eyes.  "You 
can  go  if  you  want  to,  Jim.  I'm  goin'  to  stay  right  here  till  we 
can  leave  honorably.  We  can't  run  away  from  this.  It  would  fol- 
low us  anywhere  we  went;  and  it  would  get  worse  the  farther 
we  went." 

He  knew  the  unyielding  quality  of  his  wife's  resolution,  and 
from  that  moment  he  submitted  to  his  fate.  He  loved  his  wife 
and  children  with  a  passionate  love  that  made  life  with  them, 
among  the  citizens  he  had  robbed,  better  than  life  anywhere  else 
on  earth;  he  had  no  power  to  leave  them. 

As  soon  as  possible  he  went  over  his  books  and  found  out  that 
he  owed,  above  all  notes  coming  in,  about  eleven  thousand  dollars. 
This  was  a  large  sum  to  look  forward  to  paying  by  anything  he 
could  do  in  the  Siding,  now  that  his  credit  was  gone.  Nobody 
would  take  him  as  a  clerk,  and  there  was  nothing  else  to  be  done 
except  manual  labor,  and  he  was  not  strong  enough  for  that. 

His  wife,  however,  had  a  plan.  She  sent  East  to  friends  for  a 
little  money  at  once,  and  with  a  few  hundred  dollars  opened  a  little 
store  in  time  for  the  holiday  trade — wall-paper,  notions,  light 


A  "Good  Fellow's"  Wife  239 

dry-goods,  toys,  and  millinery.  She  did  her  own  housework  and 
attended  to  her  shop  in  a  grim,  uncomplaining  fashion  that  made 
Sanford  feel  like  a  criminal  in  her  presence.  He  couldn't  propose 
to  help  her  in  the  store,  for  he  knew  the  people  would  refuse  to 
trade  with  him,  so  he  attended  to  the  children  and  did  little 
things  about  the  house  for  the  first  few  months  of  the  winter. 

His  life  for  a  time  was  abjectly  pitiful.  He  didn't  know  what 
to  do.  He  had  lost  his  footing,  and,  worst  of  all,  he  felt  that  his 
wife  no  longer  respected  him.  She  loved  and  pitied  him,  but  she 
no  longer  looked  up  to  him.  She  went  about  her  work  and  down  to 
her  store  with  a  silent,  resolute,  uncommunicative  air,  utterly  un- 
like her  former  sunny,  domestic  self,  so  that  even  she  seemed  alien 
like  the  rest.  If  he  had  been  ill,  Vance  and  McPhail  would  have 
attended  him;  as  it  was,  they  could  not  help  him. 

She  already  had  the  sympathy  of  the  entire  town,  and  Mcllvaine 
had  said :  "If  you  need  more  money,  you  can  have  it,  Mrs.  San- 
ford.  Call  on  us  at  any  time." 

"Thank  you.  I  don't  think  I'll  need  it.  All  I  ask  is  your  trade," 
she  replied.  "I  don't  ask  anybody  to  pay  more'n  a  thing's  worth, 
either.  I'm  goin'  to  sell  goods  on  business  principles,  and  I  expect 
folks  to  buy  of  me  because  I'm  selling  reliable  goods  as  cheap  as 
anybody  else." 

Her  business  was  successful  from  the  start,  but  she  did  not 
allow  herself  to  get  too  confident. 

"This  is  a  kind  of  charity  trade.  It  won't  last  on  that  basis. 
Folks  ain't  goin'  to  buy  of  me  because  I'm  poor — not  very  long," 
she  said  to  Vance,  who  went  in  to  congratulate  her  on  her  boom- 
ing trade  during  Christmas  and  New  Year. 

Vance  called  so  often,  advising  or  congratulating  her,  that  the 
boys  joked  him.  "Say,  looky  here!  You're  goin'  to  get  into  a  peck 
o'  trouble  with  your  wife  yet.  You  spend  about  half  y'r  time  in 
the  new  store." 

Vance  looked  serene  as  he  replied,  "I'd  stay  longer  and  go 
oftener  if  I  could." 

"Well,  if  you  ain't  cheekier  'n  ol'  cheek!  I  should  think  you'd 
be  ashamed  to  say  it." 


240  Main-Travelled  Roads 

"  'Shamed  of  it?  I'm  proud  of  it!  As  I  tell  my  wife,  if  I'd  'a' 
met  Mis'  Sanford  when  we  was  both  young,  they  wouldn't  'a' 
be'n  no  such  present  arrangement." 

The  new  life  made  its  changes  in  Mrs.  Sanford.  She  grew 
thinner  and  graver,  but  as  she  went  on,  and  trade  steadily  in- 
creased, a  feeling  of  pride,  a  sort  of  exultation,  came  into  her 
soul  and  shone  from  her  steady  eyes.  It  was  glorious  to  feel  that 
she  was  holding  her  own  with  men  in  the  world,  winning  their 
respect,  which  is  better  than  their  flattery.  She  arose  each  day  at 
five  o'clock  with  a  distinct  pleasure,  for  her  physical  health  was 
excellent,  never  better. 

She  began  to  dream.  She  could  pay  off  five  hundred  dollars  a 
year  of  the  interest — perhaps  she  could  pay  some  of  the  principal, 
if  all  went  well.  Perhaps  in  a  year  or  two  she  could  take  a  larger 
store,  and,  if  Jim  got  something  to  do,  in  ten  years  they  could 
pay  it  all  off — every  cent !  She  talked  with  business  men,  and  read 
and  studied,  and  felt  each  day  a  firmer  hold  on  affairs. 

Sanford  got  the  agency  of  an  insurance  company  or  two,  and 
earned  a  few  dollars  during  the  spring.  In  June  things  brightened 
up  a  little.  The  money  for  a  note  of  a  thousand  dollars  fell  due — 
a  note  he  had  considered  virtually  worthless,  but  the  debtor,  hav- 
ing had  a  "streak  o*  luck,"  sent  seven  hundred  and  fifty  dollars. 
Sanford  at  once  called  a  meeting  of  his  creditors,  and  paid  them, 
pro  rata,  a  thousand  dollars.  The  meeting  took  place  in  his  wife's 
store,  and  in  making  the  speech  Sanford  said : 

"I  tell  you,  gentlemen,  if  you'll  only  give  us  a  chance,  we'll  clear 
this  thing  all  up — that  is,  the  principal.  We  can't " 

"Yes,  we  can,  James.  We  can  pay  it  all,  principal  and  interest. 
We  owe  the  interest  just  as  much  as  the  rest."  It  was  evident 
that  there  was  to  be  no  letting  down  while  she  lived. 

The  effect  of  this  payment  was  marked.  The  general  feeling 
was  much  more  kindly  than  before.  Most  of  the  fellows  dropped 
back  into  the  habit  of  calling  him  Jim;  but,  after  all,  it  was  not 
like  the  greeting  of  old,  when  he  was  "banker."  Still  the  gain  in 
confidence  found  a  reflex  in  him.  His  shoulders,  which  had  begun 
\o  droop  a  little,  lifted,  and  his  eyes  brightened. 


A  "Good  Fellow's"  Wife  241 

"We'll  win  yet,"  he  began  to  say. 

"She's  a-holdin'  of  'im  right  to  time,"  Mrs.  Bingham  said. 

It  was  shortly  after  this  that  he  got  the  agency  for  a  new  cash- 
delivery  system,  and  went  on  the  road  with  it,  travelling  in  north- 
ern Wisconsin  and  Minnesota.  He  came  back  after  a  three  weeks' 
trip,  quite  jubilant.  "I've  made  a  hundred  dollars,  Nell.  I'm  all 
right  if  this  holds  out,  and  I  guess  it  will." 

In  the  following  November,  just  a  year  after  the  failure,  they 
celebrated  the  day,  at  her  suggestion,  by  paying  interest  on  the 
unpaid  sums  they  owed. 

"I  could  pay  a  little  more  on  the  principal,"  she  explained,  "but 
I  guess  it  '11  be  better  to  use  it  for  my  stock.  I  can  pay  better 
dividends  next  year." 

"Take  y'r  time,  Mrs.  Sanford,"  Vance  said. 

Of  course  she  could  not  escape  criticism.  There  were  the  usual 
number  of  women  who  noticed  that  she  kept  her  "young  uns" 
in  the  latest  style,  when  as  a  matter  of  fact  she  sat  up  nights  to 
make  their  little  things.  They  also  noticed  that  she  retained  her 
house  and  her  furniture. 

"If  I  was  in  her  place,  seems  to  me,  I'd  turn  in  some  o'  my  fine 
furniture  towards  my  debts,"  Mrs.  Sam  Gilbert  said,  spitefully. 

She  did  not  even  escape  calumny.  Mrs.  Sam  Gilbert  darkly 
hinted  at  certain  "goin's  on  durin'  his  bein'  away.  Lit  up  till  after 
midnight  some  nights.  I  c'n  see  her  winder  from  mine." 

Rose  McPhail,  one  of  Mrs.  Sanford's  most  devoted  friends, 
asked,  quietly,  "Do  you  sit  up  all  night  t'  see?" 

"S'posin'  I  do!"  she  snapped.  "I  can't  sleep  with  such  things 
goin'  on." 

"If  it  '11  do  you  any  good,  Jane,  I'll  say  that  she's  settin'  up 
there  sewin'  for  the  children.  If  you'd  keep  your  nose  out  o'  other 
folks'  affairs,  and  attend  better  to  your  own,  your  house  wouldn't 
look  like  a  pig-pen,  an'  your  children  like  A-rabs." 

But  in  spite  of  a  few  annoyances  of  this  character  Mrs.  San- 
ford  found  her  new  life  wholesomer  and  broader  than  her  old 
life,  and  the  pain  of  her  loss  grew  less  poignant. 


242  Main-Travelled  Roads 

VI 

One  day  in  spring,  in  the  lazy,  odorous  hush  of  the  afternoon, 
the  usual  number  of  loafers  were  standing  on  the  platform,  wait- 
ing for  the  train.  The  sun  was  going  down  the  slope  toward  the 
hills,  through  a  warm  April  haze. 

"Hello!"  exclaimed  the  man  who  always  sees  things  first. 
"Here  comes  Mrs.  Sanford  and  the  ducklings." 

Everybody  looked. 

"Ain't  goin'  off,  is  she?" 

"Nope;  guess  not.  Meet  somebody,  prob'ly  Sanford." 

"Well,  something  up.  She  don't  often  get  out  o'  that  store." 

"Le's  see;  he's  been  gone  most  o'  the  winter,  hain't  he?" 

"Yes ;  went  away  about  New- Year's." 

Mrs.  Sanford  came  past,  leading  a  child  by  each  hand,  nodding 
and  smiling  to  friends — for  all  seemed  friends.  She  looked  very 
resolute  and  business-like  in  her  plain,  dark  dress,  with  a  dull 
flame  of  color  at  the  throat,  while  the  broad  hat  she  wore  gave 
her  face  a  touch  of  piquancy  very  charming.  Evidently  she  was 
in  excellent  spirits,  and  laughed  and  chatted  in  quite  a  care-free 
way. 

She  was  now  an  institution  at  the  Siding.  Her  store  had  grown 
in  proportions  yearly,  until  it  was  as  large  and  commodious  as 
any  in  the  town.  The  drummers  for  dry-goods  all  called  there, 
and  the  fact  that  she  did  not  sell  any  groceries  at  all  did  not  deter 
the  drummers  for  grocery  houses  from  calling  to  see  each  time 
if  she  hadn't  decided  to  put  in  a  stock  of  groceries. 

These  keen-eyed  young  fellows  had  spread  her  fame  all  up  and 
down  the  road.  She  had  captured  them,  not  by  beauty,  but  by 
her  pluck,  candor,  honesty,  and  by  a  certain  fearless  but  reserved 
camaraderie.  She  was  not  afraid  of  them,  or  of  anybody  else, 
now. 

The  train  whistled,  and  everybody  turned  to  watch  it  as  it  came 
pushing  around  the  bluff  like  a  huge  hound  on  a  trail,  its  nose 
close  to  the  ground.  Among  the  first  to  alight  was  Sanford,  in 
a  shining  new  silk  hat  and  a  new  suit  of  clothes.  He  was  smiling 


A  "Good  Fellow's"  Wife  243 

gaily  as  he  fought  his  way  through  the  crowd  to  his  wife's  side. 
"Hello!"  he  shouted.  "I  thought  I'd  see  you  all  here." 

"Wy,  Jim,  ain't  you  cuttin'  a  swell?" 

"A  swell!  Well,  who's  got  a  better  right?  A  man  wants  to 
look  as  well  as  he  can  when  he  comes  home  to  such  a  family." 

"Hello,  Jim!  That  plug  '11  never  do." 

"Hello,  Vance!  Yes;  but  it's  got  to  do.  Say,  you  tell  all  the 
fellers  that's  got  anything  ag'inst  me  to  come  around  to-morrow 
night  to  the  store.  I  want  to  make  some  kind  of  a  settlement." 

"All  right,  Jim.  Coin'  to  pay  a  new  dividend  ?" 

"That's  what  I  am,"  he  beamed,  as  he  walked  off  with  his  wife, 
who  was  studying  him  sharply. 

"Jim,  what  ails  you?" 

"Nothin';  I'm  all  right." 

"But  this  new  suit?  And  the  hat?  And  the  necktie?" 

He  laughed  merrily — so  merrily,  in  fact,  that  his  wife  looked  at 
him  the  more  anxiously.  He  appeared  to  be  in  a  queer  state  of 
intoxication — a  state  that  made  him  happy  without  impairing  his 
faculties,  however.  He  turned  suddenly  and  put  his  lips  down  to- 
ward her  ear.  "Well,  Nell,  I  can't  hold  in  any  longer.  We've 
struck  it!" 

"Struck  what?" 

"Well,  you  see  that  derned  fool  partner  o'  mine  got  me  to  go 
into  a  lot  o'  land  in  the  copper  country.  That's  where  all  the 
trouble  came.  He  got  awfully  let  down.  Well,  he's  had  some  sur- 
veyors to  go  up  there  lately  and  look  it  over,  and  the  next  thing  we 
knew  the  Superior  Mining  Company  came  along  an*  wanted  to 
buy  it.  Of  course  we  didn't  want  to  sell  just  then." 

They  had  reached  the  store  door,  and  he  paused. 

"We'll  go  right  home  to  supper,"  she  said.  "The  girls  will  look 
out  for  things  till  I  get  back." 

They  walked  on  together,  the  children  laughing  and  playing 
ahead. 

"Well,  upshot  of  it  is,  I  sold  out  my  share  to  Osgood  for 
twenty  thousand  dollars." 

She  stopped,  and  stared  at  him.  "Jim — Gordon  Sanford!" 


244  Main-Travelled  Roads 

"Fact!  I  can  prove  it."  He  patted  his  breast  pocket  mysteriously. 
"Ten  thousand  right  there." 

"Gracious  sakes  alive!  How  dare  you  carry  so  much  money?" 

"I'm  mighty  glad  o'  the  chance."  He  grinned. 

They  walked  on  almost  in  silence,  with  only  a  word  now  and 
then.  She  seemed  to  be  thinking  deeply,  and  he  didn't  want  to 
disturb  her.  It  was  a  delicious  spring  hour.  The  snow  was  all 
gone,  even  under  the  hedges.  The  roads  were  warm  and  brown. 
The  red  sun  was  flooding  the  valley  with  a  misty,  rich-colored 
light,  and  against  the  orange  and  gold  of  the  sky  the  hills  stood 
in  Tyrian  purple.  Wagons  were  rattling  along  the  road.  Men  on 
the  farms  in  the  edge  of  the  village  could  be  heard  whistling  at 
their  work.  A  discordant  jangle  of  a  neighboring  farmer's  supper- 
bell  announced  that  it  was  time  "to  turn  out." 

Sanford  was  almost  as  gay  as  a  lover.  He  seemed  to  be  on  the 
point  of  regaining  his  old  place  in  his  wife's  respect.  Somehow 
the  possession  of  the  package  of  money  in  his  pocket  seemed  to 
make  him  more  worthy  of  her,  to  put  him  more  on  an  equality 
with  her. 

As  they  reached  the  little  one-story  square  cottage  he  sat  down 
on  the  porch,  where  the  red  light  fell  warmly,  and  romped  with 
the  children,  while  his  wife  went  in  and  took  off  her  things.  She 
"kept  a  girl"  now,  so  that  the  work  of  getting  supper  did  not 
devolve  entirely  upon  her.  She  came  out  soon  to  call  them  all 
to  the  supper-table  in  the  little  kitchen  back  of  the  sitting-room. 

The  children  were  wild  with  delight  to  have  "poppa"  back, 
and  the  meal  was  the  merriest  they  had  had  for  a  long  time.  The 
doors  and  windows  were  open,  and  the  Spring  evening  air  came 
in,  laden  with  the  sweet,  suggestive  smell  of  bare  ground.  The 
alert  chuckle  of  an  occasional  robin  could  be  heard. 

Mrs.  Sanford  looked  up  from  her  tea.  "There's  one  thing  I 
don't  like,  Jim,  and  that's  the  way  that  money  comes.  You  didn't 
— you  didn't  really  earn  it." 

"Oh,  don't  worry  yourself  about  that.  That's  the  way  things  go. 
It's  just  luck." 


A  "Good  Fellow's"  Wife  245 

"Well,  I  can't  see  it  just  that  way.  It  seems  to  me  just — like 
gambling.  You  win,  but — but  somebody  else  must  lose." 

"Oh  well,  look  a-here ;  if  you  go  to  lookin'  too  sharp  into  things 
like  that,  you'll  find  a  good  'eal  of  any  business  like  gamblin'." 

She  said  no  more,  but  her  face  remained  clouded.  On  the  way 
down  to  the  store  they  met  Lincoln. 

"Come  down  to  the  store,  Link,  and  bring  Joe.  I  want  to  talk 
with  yeh." 

Lincoln  stared,  but  said,  "All  right."  Then  added,  as  the  others 
walked  away,  "Well,  that  feller  ain't  got  no  cheek  t'  talk  to  me 
like  that — more  cheek  'n  a  gov'ment  mule!" 

Jim  took  a  seat  near  the  door,  and  watched  his  wife  as  she  went 
about  the  store.  She  employed  two  clerks  now,  while  she  attended 
to  the  books  and  the  cash.  He  thought  how  different  she  was,  and 
he  liked  (and,  in  a  way,  feared)  her  cool,  business-like  manner, 
her  self-possession,  and  her  smileless  conversation  with  a  drum- 
mer who  came  in.  Jim  was  puzzled.  He  didn't  quite  understand 
the  peculiar  effect  his  wife's  manner  had  upon  him. 

Outside,  word  had  passed  around  that  Jim  had  got  back  and 
that  something  was  in  the  wind,  and  the  fellows  began  to  drop  in. 
When  McPhail  came  in  and  said,  "Hello!"  in  his  hearty  way,  San- 
ford  went  over  to  his  wife  and  said: 

"Say,  Nell,  I  can't  stand  this.  I'm  goin'  to  get  rid  o'  this  money 
right  off,  now\" 

"Very  well;  just  as  you  please." 

"Gents,"  he  began,  turning  his  back  to  the  counter  and  smiling 
blandly  on  them,  one  thumb  in  his  vest  pocket,  "any  o'  you  fellers 
got  anything  against  the  Lumber  County  Bank — any  certificates 
of  deposit,  or  notes?" 

Two  or  three  nodded,  and  McPhail  said,  humorously,  slapping 
his  pocket,  "I  always  go  loaded." 

"Produce  your  paper,  gents,"  continued  Sanford,  with  a  dramatic 
whang  of  a  leathern  wallet  down  into  his  palm.  "I'm  buying  up 
all  paper  on  the  bank." 

It  was  a  superb  stroke.  The  fellows  whistled  and  stared  and 
swore  at  one  another.  This  was  coming  down  on  them.  Link  was 


246  Main-Travelled  Roads 

dumb  with  amazement  as  he  received  sixteen  hundred  and  fifty 
dollars  in  crisp,  new  bills. 

"Andrew,  it's  your  turn  next."  Sanford's  tone  was  actually 
patronizing  as  he  faced  McPhail. 

"I  was  jokin*.  I  ain't  got  my  certificate  here." 

"Don't  matter — don't  matter.  Here's  fifteen  hundred  dollars. 
Just  give  us  a  receipt,  and  bring  the  certif.  any  time.  I  want  to 
get  rid  o'  this  stuff  right  now." 

"Say,  Jim,  we'd  like  to  know  jest— jest  where  this  windfall 
comes  from,"  said  Vance,  as  he  took  his  share. 

"Comes  from  the  copper  country,"  was  all  he  ever  said  about  it. 

"I  don't  see  where  he  invested,"  Link  said.  "Wasn't  a  scratch 
of  a  pen  to  show  that  he  invested  anything  while  he  was  in  the 
bank.  Guess  that's  where  our  money  went." 

"Well,  I  ain't  squealin',"  said  Vance.  "I'm  glad  to  get  out  of 
it  without  asking  any  questions.  I'll  tell  yeh  one  thing,  though," 
he  added,  as  they  stood  outside  the  door;  "we'd  'a'  never  smelt 
of  our  money  again  if  it  hadn't  'a'  been  f'r  that  woman  in  there. 
She'd  'a'  paid  it  alone  if  Jim  hadn't  'a'  made  this  strike,  whereas 
he  never  'd  'a' —  Well,  all  right.  We're  out  of  it." 

It  was  one  of  the  greatest  moments  of  Sanford's  life.  He  ex- 
panded in  it.  He  was  as  pleasantly  aware  of  the  glances  of  his  wife 
as  he  used  to  be  when,  as  a  clerk,  he  saw  her  pass  and  look  in  at 
the  window  where  he  sat  dreaming  over  his  ledger. 

As  for  her,  she  was  going  over  the  whole  situation  from  this 
new  standpoint.  He  had  been  weak,  he  had  fallen  in  her  estima- 
tion, and  yet,  as  he  stood  there,  so  boyish  in  his  exultation,  the 
father  of  her  children,  she  loved  him  with  a  touch  of  maternal 
tenderness  and  hope,  and  her  heart  throbbed  in  an  unconscious, 
swift  determination  to  do  him  good.  She  no  longer  deceived  her- 
self. She  was  his  equal — in  some  ways  his  superior.  Her  love 
had  friendship  in  it,  but  less  of  sex,  and  no  adoration. 

As  she  blew  out  the  lights,  stepped  out  on  the  walk,  and  turned 
the  key  in  the  lock,  he  said,  "Well,  Nellie,  you  won't  have  to 
do  that  any  more." 


A  "Good  Fellow's"  Wife  247 

"No;  I  won't  have  to,  but  I  guess  I'll  keep  on  just  the  same, 
Jim." 

"Keep  on?  What  for?" 

"Well,  I  rather  like  it." 

"But  you  don't  need  to " 

"I  like  being  my  own  boss,"  she  said.  "I've  done  a  lot  o'  figur- 
ing, Jim,  these  last  three  years,  and  it's  kind  o'  broadened  me, 
I  hope.  I  can't  go  back  where  I  was.  I'm  a  better  woman  than  I 
was  before,  and  I  hope  and  believe  that  I'm  better  able  to  be  a 
real  mother  to  my  children." 

Jim  looked  up  at  the  moon  filling  the  warm,  moist  air  with  a 
transfiguring  light  that  fell  in  a  luminous  mist  on  the  distant 
hills.  "I  know  one  thing,  Nellie;  I'm  a  better  man  than  I  was 
before,  and  it's  all  owin'  to  you." 

His  voice  trembled  a  little,  and  the  sympathetic  tears  came  into 
her  eyes.  She  didn't  speak  at  once — she  couldn't.  At  last  she 
stopped  him  by  a  touch  on  the  arm. 

"Jim,  I  want  a  partner  in  my  store.  Let  us  begin  again,  right 
here.  I  can't  say  that  I'll  ever  feel  just  as  I  did  once — I  don't 
know  as  it's  right  to.  I  looked  up  to  you  too  much.  I  expected 
too  much  of  you,  too.  Let's  begin  again,  as  equal  partners."  She 
held  out  her  hand,  as  one  man  to  another.  He  took  it  wonderingly. 

"All  right,  Nell;  I'll  do  it." 

Then,  as  he  put  his  arm  around  her,  she  held  up  her  lips  to  be 
kissed.  "And  we'll  be  happy  again — happy  as  we  deserve,  I  s'pose," 
she  said,  with  a  smile  and  a  sigh. 

"It's  almost  like  getting  married  again,  Nell — for  me." 

As  they  walked  off  up  the  sidewalk  in  the  soft  moonlight,  their 
arms  were  interlocked. 

They  loitered  like  a  couple  of  lovers. 


THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  SANTA  CRUZ 


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"11 

MAR  1 5  REC'D 


JAN  1 1  1978 

JUN1378    « 

JUN14  1978fiEC'D 

"1  78   * 

9  1978  SECT 

079  ** 

MAY  2  9  1979  REC'D 

OCT    3 

FEB191981  REC'O 


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